THE  HEART 


OF 


ALSACE 

BENJAMIN 
VALLOTTON 


"T 


^ 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 


BY 

BENJAMIN  VALLOTTON 

Author  of  "Potterat  and  the  War" 


"Wouldst  thou  change  our  Alsatian  race? 
Sooner  might'st  thou  our  hearts  displace.' 


NEW  YORK 

DODD,  MEAD  AND  COMPANY 

1918 


Copyright,  1918 
By  DODD,  mead  and  company.  Inc. 


^0 

THE  MEMORY  OF 

MY  ALSATIAN  PUPILS 

WHO  DIED  FOR  FRANCE 


956S68 


PREFACE 

The  annexed  provinces  will  have  no  reason  to  blush  for 
their  half-century  of  slavery!  Those  who  have  failed  to 
keep  the  compact  of  silent  fidelity  are  but  a  handful. 
The  hostages  of  defeat,  Alsatians  and  Lorraines  have 
courageously  accepted  the  part  of  the  representatives  of 
human  dignity  protesting  against  brutal  force.  The 
small  nations  owe  them  a  deep  debt  of  gratitude.  Their 
courageous  resistance  has  had  this  result:  that  hence- 
forth the  strong  will  hesitate  to  treat  the  weak  like  a 
flock  of  cattle  to  be  driven  at  will. 

Twelve  years  spent  in  Alsace  have  filled  the  writer  of 
these  pages  with  a  respect  for  that  country  which  it  is 
hard  to  express  in  words.  The  conquerors  have  flattered, 
threatened,  abused,  struck  (witness  the  Saverne  affair,  in 
which  the  odious  and  the  ridiculous  vied  with  each 
other) ;  the  Alsatians  have  opposed  the  dyke  of  their 
good  sense  to  the  turbid  waters  of  Pan-Germanism,  forti- 
fied by  their  attachment  to  the  traditions  of  liberty  and 
culture  derived  from  their  distant  past,  and  by  two  cen- 
turies of  community  with  France. 

Alsace  (and  if  I  say  nothing  of  Lorraine  it  is  because 
I  confine  myself  to  things  I  have  actually  seen  and  to 
some  extent  experienced)  has  known  only  the  Germany 

V 


vi  PREFACE 

puffed  up  with  pride,  and  infatuated  with  her  science  and 
her  victories,  who  came  into  the  Reichsland  to  colonize, 
to  "  civilize,"  to  preach  the  whole  gospel  of  Pan-German- 
ism, the  fruit  of  which,  after  a  rapid  and  inevitable  evo- 
lution, has  been  the  most  savage  of  all  wars.  When  we 
pass  in  review  the  methods  and  practices  suddenly  re- 
vealed to  a  horrified  world,  and  remember  that  Alsace 
was  given  over,  bound  hand  and  foot,  to  the  men  re- 
sponsible for  these  methods  and  practices,  we  can  form 
some  idea  of  the  sufferings  of  the  annexed  provinces  since 
they  were  torn  .from  France. 

I  said  one  day  to  a  pedagogue  who  was  dealing  out 
harsh  measure  in  Alsace: 

"  Can't  you  put  yourself  in  the  place  of  the  Alsatians 
for  a  moment?  " 

With  an  arrogant  gesture,  he  replied : 

"  We  don't  wish  to  put  ourselves  in  their  places.  We 
are  here  to  manifest  our  strength." 

These  words  give  a  very  exact  indication  of  the  spirit 
which  has  informed  attempts  to  Germanize  the  "  long-lost 
brothers."  Many  of  the  German  officials  show  indisput- 
able professional  virtues;  the  administration  is  remark- 
able for  its  habits  of  order,  its  organizing  abilities,  its 
rectitude,  qualities  which  all  must  admire;  but  it  is  no 
less  notable  for  a  want  of  tact,  a  determination  to  break 
and  crush  those  in  subjection  to  it,  a  supreme  contempt 
for  the  feelings  of  those  who  had  been  severed  from 
their  fatherland  by  the  sword. 

Every  noble  soul  has  been  impelled  to  resist. 


PREFACE  vii 

The  pages  of  this  book,  a  record  of  daily  experiences, 
were  dictated  to  the  heart  of  a  Swiss  by  his  love  of  liberty. 
They  tell  the  humble  commonplace  truth  concerning 
simple  lives,  spent  in  the  quietude  of  a  narrow  valley. 

Do  you  remember,  friend  Bacher?  .  .  .  We  went  at 
the  top  of  Hartmannswillerkopf,  in  a  trench  where  the 
soldiers  were  watching,  their  fingers  on  the  trigger  of 
their  guns,  a  dozen  yards  from  the  foe.  A  few  paces 
from  us,  the  Chief  Adjutant  Antoine  had  just  been 
killed  by  a  bullet  through  his  forehead.  There  was  an 
odour  of  death  in  the  air;  the  entrails  of  the  mountain 
were  laid  bare.  We  looked  alternately  through  a  narrow 
loop  hole  at  the  plain  of  Alsace,  the  smoke  of  Mulhouse, 
and  above  all,  at  the  ruins  of  Cernay  and  Vieux-Thann  at 
our  feet.  How  many  ruined  villages  we  had  passed 
through  on  the  preceding  day!  How  many  hundreds  of 
graves  we  had  seen !  And  you  said  suddenly,  as  if  speak- 
ing to  yourself  —  you,  who  gave  up  all  and  risked  all  at 
the  call  of  honour: 

"Poor  Alsace!  But  there  is  happiness  in  her  suffer- 
ing!  " 

How  I  envied  you!  And  how  well  I  understood  what 
one  of  my  Alsatian  pupils,  mortally  wounded,  had  said 
before  his  death  at  the  age  of  twenty-three: 

"  I  am  very  happy !  " 

B.  V. 

OUCHY. 

September  1,  1918. 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

I 

WHEN  Aunt  Emma  heard  that  her  nephew  was  go- 
ing to  Alsace,  she  remarked  unctuously: 

"  Let  us  hope  he  will  behave  prudently  there.  It  is 
not  his  business  to  fan  the  flame." 

His  University  studies  at  Lausanne  having  come  to  an 
end,  in  token  whereof  a  little  old  secretary  had  handed 
him  the  customary  parchment,  Andre  Reymond  was  his 
own  master.  Hitherto,  when  he  had  been  told,  "Do 
this,"  he  had  done  it;  "Read  that,"  he  had  read  it; 
"Translate  this  passage,"  he  had  translated  it  to  the 
best  of  his  ability.  .  .  .  All  at  once,  the  certificated 
persons  who  teach  one  to  speak,  write,  and  think,  had 
disappeared,  and  he  stood  face  to  face  with  life,  which 
one  must  get  through  somehow,  elbowing  one's  neigh- 
bours, meeting  rebuffs  with  a  smile,  playing  one's  part. 

Sentimental  by  nature,  and  with  a  heart  ravaged  by 
an  impossible  love-affair,  Reymond  felt  an  almost  physi- 
cal need  to  see  something  of  the  world  before  he  was 
caught  up  into  the  machinery  of  routine:  the  college  in 
the  small  country  town,  the  bewildered  little  boys  one 
drags  along  from  a  declension  to  an  irregular  verb,  the 
petty  salary,  the  petty  cares,  the  petty  successes,  the  eter- 


2  THE  HE4RT  OF  ALSACE 

nal  harking  back  to  beginnings,  a  kind  of  narrow  worth, 
of  puny  dignity,  until  the  day  when  a  colleague  in  a 
frock-coat  pours  out  the  customary  periods  on  your  grave. 

To  see  the  world,  did  I  say?  When  a  youth  is  the 
eldest  of  seven  brothers  and  sisters,  the  youngest  of 
whom  is  still  an  infant,  and  his  parents,  terrified  by  the 
rising  prices  of  provisions,  thrusts  the  elders  of  the  brood 
resolutely  out  of  the  nest,  there  is  not  much  choice  of 
methods.  What  a  good  idea  it  was  of  Monsieur  Bohler's 
to  engage  a  tutor  for  his  children!  .  .  .  Alsace  .  .  . 
storks,  hop-gardens,  old  men  in  red  waistcoats,  women 
in  caps  with  large  black  bows.  .  .  .  Alsace,  the  tragic 
land  where  strangers  press  your  hand  and  murmur: 
"Long  live  France!  "  Thus  at  least  did  it  suggest  itself 
to  Reymond,  whose  ideas  of  it  were  founded  on  lachry- 
mose lyrics  and  feuilletons  whose  heroes,  like  Hannibal, 
bound  themselves  by  terrible  oaths!  His  imagination 
was  fired.  He  left  his  native  town  on  a  warm  September 
morning,  accompanied  by  the  good  wishes  of  his  family 
and  the  moderating  counsels  of  his  Aunt  Emma. 

Farewell,  calm  waters  of  Leman,  farewell  to  the  opti- 
mism of  curving  bays  and  sunlit  slopes! 

At  Basle  the  young  man  wandered  through  streets 
bordered  by  low  houses.  On  the  lofty  terrace  of  the 
Cathedral  of  pink  sandstone,  he  lost  himself  in  con- 
templation of  these  new  horizons.  To  the  right  the  hills, 
the  distant  chaos  of  the  mountains,  the  blue  line  of  the 
valleys,  the  little  country  districts  with  their  clear  rivers, 
each  snugly  enclosed  in  the  space  allotted  to  it  by  Nature, 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  3 

with  its  acres,  fields,  flock,  and  belfry.  In  front  and  to 
the  left,  the  Duchy  of  Baden,  the  plain  that  stretches  out 
between  the  Vosges  and  the  Black  Forest,  and  then 
more  hills,  but  without  the  massive  groundwork  of  rock, 
hills  that  undulate  gently,  like  a  stormy  sea  sinking  to 
rest,  allowing  one  to  divine  beyond  them  tracts  of  level 
groimd,  marshes,  heaths,  rivers  with  sluggish  waters,  and 
the  smoke  of  busy  towns. 

Reymond's  birthplace  was  a  canton  from  which  tragedy 
is  banished.  Its  inhabitants  drink  wine.  They  live  with- 
out violent  passions  and  mad  ambitions.  They  crack 
jokes;  they  have  a  gentle  belief  in  equality  and  liberty, 
but,  above  all,  in  happiness.  Reymond,  parted  from 
these  peaceful  surroundings  for  the  first  time  at  the  age 
of  twenty-two,  was  moved.  His  eyes  turned  again  and 
again  to  the  river.  The  torrent  foams  round  the  surface 
of  the  rocks,  gathering  up  the  cold  waters  of  the  glaciers, 
hardly  abating  its  turbulence  in  a  lake,  amusing  itself 
again  by  leaping  down  among  the  rocks  of  Schaffhausen, 
and  roaring  between  the  narrow  banks;  then,  suddenly 
expanding,  it  turns  its  back  on  the  land  of  the  mountains; 
its  green  waters  roll  in  strength,  they  slap  the  abutments 
of  bridges  and  glide  among  the  reeds  with  an  impulse  so 
unanimous  that  for  an  instant,  in  spite  of  the  vortex  of 
whirlpools,  they  produce  an  illusion  of  perfect  immobil- 
ity. 

Reymond  strained  his  ears  to  catch  the  rustling  move- 
ments of  this  monster  with  supple  scales.  Before  this 
mass,  sweeping  forward  irresistibly,  his  ideas  were  in 


4  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

upheaval;  he  conceived  of  forces  that  despise,  deny,  and 
crush;  he  felt  himself  carried  away,  reduced  to  nothing- 
ness by  this  green  river,  going  off  to  conquer  the  world 
with  the  confidence  of  a  violence  that  grinds  and  pul- 
verizes. 

Resting  his  hands  on  the  warm  stone  of  the  terrace- 
wall,  Raymond  seemed  to  hear  the  soft  voice  of  his  Aunt 
Emma,  the  gentle  pacifist:  "  Be  careful,  my  boy.  Don't 
excite  the  Alsatians.  War  is  so  horrible!  "  The  river 
flowed  on  to  its  fate. 

In  the  central  hall  of  the  railway-station  was  a  cos- 
mopolitan mob;  persons  running,  others  gesticulating, 
rows  of  commissionaires  with  buckled  straps,  persons  who 
had  subsided,  exhausted,  on  a  bench  and  sat  mopping 
their  heated  foreheads,  all  types  and  all  tongues,  as 
seen  in  a  corridor  through  which  every  one  has  to  pass. 
Through  a  half-open  door,  people  were  to  be  observed, 
eating  with  great  gravity.  A  huge  advertisement  of 
a  special  chocolate  dominated  the  hurly-burly  of  this 
return  after  the  holidays.  It  represented  a  flower- 
spangled  meadow  at  the  foot  of  violet  peaks,  in  which 
stood  sleek  milch  cows  and  a  theatrical  shepherd,  carol- 
ling to  the  sun.  Reymond  cast  a  lingering  look  at  these 
cows.     Then,  seizing  his  valise,  he  followed  the  crowd. 

In  the  German  Custom-house  voices  were  lowered,  as 
if  in  deference  to  the  dismal  discipline  which  reigned  in 
the  place.  The  Customs  officers,  haughtily  civil,  in 
belted  green  tunics,  bent  over  the  luggage,  felt  among 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  5 

it,  asked  brief  questions,  entirely  absorbed  in  those  pro- 
fessional rites  which  culminate  in  the  hieroglyphs  they 
trace  with  chalk.  In  other  countries  Customs  officers 
are  sceptical,  or  good-natured,  or  gallant.  Those  of  Ger- 
many have  the  gravity  proper  to  servants  of  the  Empire. 
They  watch  its  portals  as  outpost  sentries.  Kaiserliche 
Zollrevision.  Kaiserlich!  This  is  the  business  device, 
the  rallying  sign,  the  mystic  word,  the  secret  of  success. 
Kaiserlich!  Posts,  prisons,  policemen,  and  prefects,  all 
are  Kaiserlich.  And  on  the  buckles  of  belts  we  read: 
Gott  mit  uns.  The  Emperor  and  God!  The  two  forces, 
which  are  but  one,  proclaim  themselves  on  the  very 
frontier. 

Reymond  bore  himself  humbly.  His  voice  sounded 
muffled.  When  the  man  in  green  declared  himself  sat- 
isfied, he  passed  unobtrusively  into  the  corridor  where 
the  man  who  punches  the  tickets  submitted  to  him  waits 
mournfully  in  a  kind  of  cage.  No  one  would  ever  think 
of  laughing,  whistling,  or  joking  here.  The  atmosphere 
was  impressive,  orderly,  decent,  heavy. 

Presently  the  train  was  gliding  smoothly  over  the  plain 
of  Alsace,  among  potato-fields  and  copses  and  vine-clad 
slopes.  A  dull  noise  intimated  the  passage  of  the  train 
through  a  station.  Then  the  traveller  noted  the  red  cap 
of  the  station-master,  the  man  at  the  level  crossing 
shouldering  arms,  the  policeman  with  his  spiked  helmet. 
And  all  saluted  the  passing  train. 

"Miilhausen!" 


6  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

Standing  on  the  platform,  Reymond  was  considering 
which  way  to  go,  when  a  man  with  a  short,  bristling 
moustache  touched  him  on  the  arm. 

"  Where  do  you  come  from,  sir?  " 

"  From  Lausanne." 

"  And  you  are  Swiss?  " 

"  I  am." 

"  You  serve  in  the  army?  '* 

"Yes." 

"  Infantry?  " 

"Yes." 

"  The  name  of  your  commanding  officer,  please?  " 

"Apotheloz." 

"  And  where  are  you  going?  " 

"ToFriedensbach." 

**  Thank  you.  The  train  starts  in  two  hours.  Down 
there." 

The  police-officer  in  plain  clothes  moved  away,  leaving 
Reymond  petrified  by  this  formal  interrogatory  greeting 
him  as  he  stepped  from  the  train,  this  threatening  polite- 
ness, this  steel-grey  scrutiny  boring  into  the  depths  of  his 
eyes, 

"Damnable  country!"  thought  the  young  man. 
"You  were  a  fool  to  bind  yourself  for  two  years!  If 
they  begin  to  suspect  you  the  very  first  day,  you  are  likely 
to  have  a  pleasant  time." 

Much  impressed,  he  set  out  to  explore  Miilhausen, 
strolling  haphazard  from  street  to  street,  on  the  watch  for 
a  word,  a  gesture,  a  scene  which  should  evoke  the  Alsace 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  7 

of  his  dreams.  The  passers-by  spoke  a  guttural  patois. 
There  were  German  inscriptions  on  the  shop-fronts.  At 
the  cross-roads  stood  huge  policemen  wearing  the  in- 
evitable spiked  helmet.  Noticing  some  persons  in  front 
of  him  who  were  talking  French,  Reymond  followed  them 
instinctively  until  the  moment  when  they  looked  back 
at  him  so  distrustfully,  dropping  their  voices,  that  he 
fell  behind. 

Not  far  from  some  barracks,  soldiers  were  drinking 
beer  on  the  terrace  of  a  Wirtschaft,  If  an  officer  passed, 
buttoned  tightly  in  his  long  blue  tunic,  or  a  square- jawed 
non-commissioned  officer,  these  men  sprang  up,  clicking 
their  heels  sharply  together,  holding  up  their  chins,  ex- 
tending their  little  fingers  against  the  seams  of  their 
trousers,  as  if  mesmerized.  Falling  back  into  their 
chairs,  they  plunged  their  noses  anew  into  their  mugs, 
ready  to  jump  up  again  at  the  warning  clink  of  a  sword 
on  the  pavement.  Reymond,  accustomed  to  a  discipline 
tempered  by  geniality,  was  astonished;  he  looked  at  the 
round  faces  of  the  soldiers,  seeking  the  imperceptible 
smile  of  one  who  is  not  a  complete  dupe,  or  evidences  of 
weariness,  and  finding  nothing  but  a  kind  of  intoxication 
of  subservience,  a  superstitious  reverence  for  the  emblems 
of  rank. 

In  front  of  the  iron  gate  of  the  barracks  a  sentry  paced 
backwards  and  forwards,  pirouetted,  counted  his  steps, 
pirouetted  again  and  again,  like  an  automaton  fully 
wound  up.  In  the  courtyard,  a  hundred  soldiers  were 
stamping  on  the  ground  with  disconcerting  gravity,  a 


8  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

kind  of  sacred  fury,  at  the  orders  of  a  non-commissioned 
officer  who  might  have  been  in  command  of  a  brigade, 
so  loudly  did  he  yell.  At  a  sign  from  the  sentry,  Rey- 
mond  moved  away. 

A  canal  bordered  by  poplar-trees.  Barges  coming 
from  France  or  Germany  cleft  the  dead  water  with  their 
broad  breasts.  On  the  decks  of  these  craft  barking  dogs 
ran  along  the  flat  edges,  and  then  stood  motionless,  nose 
to  nose,  belching  forth  insults  before  going  their  way  — 
irreconcilable  creatures  with  curly  coats  and  beardM 
chops,  giving  utterance  to  things  their  masters  were 
saying  within  themselves.  These  masters,  red-haired  and 
placid,  fellows  with  a  lively  twist  of  the  hips,  wearing 
gaily-coloured  handkerchiefs  round  their  throats,  leaned 
on  the  tiller,  looking  at  each  other.  And  the  slow  barges 
crossed  each  other,  their  smooth  flanks  slipping  along  in 
opposite  directions,  some  towards  a  lower,  others  towards 
a  lighter  sky. 

.  .  .  Again  the  train  was  gliding  across  the  plain, 
among  heaths  where  broom  and  heather  mingled  and 
hares  and  pheasants  crouched.  The  Vosges  were  nearer. 
At  a  narrowing  of  the  valley,  prettily  grouped  about  its 
cathedral  with  bronzed  tiles,  appeared  an  unexpected 
town:  Thann.  And  the  policeman  was  there  on  the 
watch.  .  .  .  Then  the  valley,  the  river  with  its  white 
pebbles,  the  inn  near  the  arched  bridge,  the  villages 
planted  among  meadows,  and  in  the  valley  the  little  train 
threading  its  way,  amusing  itself  by  whistling  to  rouse 
an  echo,  hiding  itself  in  a  tunnel  for  fun,  acclaimed  by 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  9 

washerwomen  kneeling  before  their  tubs,  shouted  at  by 
boys,  heralded  by  barking  dogs.  And  up  above,  the  blue 
of  the  Vosges  mountains,  intersected  by  the  deeper  blue 
of  valleys  running  in  every  direction,  a  gay,  translucent 
blue  laid  upon  the  roseate  earth  and  yellowing  bushes. 

Seated  opposite  to  Reymond  was  a  smooth-faced  young 
man  with  a  pale  complexion  and  a  bitter  mouth,  who 
seemed  ready  to  embark  upon  a  monologue  for  men  only. 
He  started  at  his  solitary  fellow-traveller,  and  began  sud- 
denly: 

"  A  fine  day." 

"  Yes,  indeed.     And  the  country  is  charming." 

"  You  are  a  Frenchman,  perhaps?  " 

"  No.     I  am  from  French  Switzerland." 

"  Really?  And  I  thought  they  talked  only  a  German 
patois  in  Switzerland!  Have  you  come  to  spend  a  few 
days  in  this  corner  of  the  world?  " 

"A  few  years." 

"Ah!  well  met.  .  .  .  We  shall  probably  be  neigh- 
bours at  the  restaurant-table.  .  .  .  The  portly  Made- 
moiselle Schmoler,  whose  voice  is  as  harmonious  as  her 
name,  has  already  trumpeted  your  advent.  .  .  .  My 
name  is  Coquart,  at  your  service.  I  am  in  the  chemical 
department  of  the  factory.  .  .  .  You'll  find  it  delightful! 
.  .  .  Workmen,  ofi&cials  in  green  hats,  storks.  .  .  .  The 
girls  are  all  some  forty  kilometres  away." 

Reymond  blushed  ingenuously. 

"  Well,  but  Alsace  ..." 

"  All  gammon !  .  .  .  Books  tell  you  all  that,  and  bar- 


10  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

rel-organs  (the  chemist,  seizing  an  imaginary  handle, 
cast  his  eyes  heavenwards  and  whined :  "  Alsace-Lor- 
raine .  .  .").  Commonplaces  for  the  delight  of  the  soft- 
hearted. They  do  very  well  on  the  stage,  for  the 
apotheosis:  music!  and  the  Alsacienne  sinks  into  the 
arms  of  the  French  oflScer.  In  reality,  there  are  perhaps 
some  few  grandpapas  who  remember  us.  But  as  to  the 
majority!  .  .  .  Well,  in  the  first  place,  they  speak  a 
lingo  ...  oh !  I  shall  never  believe  that  it  can  mean  any- 
thing. .  .  .  And  the  revanche!  .  .  .  The  place  for  that  is 
the  Deroulede  Museum." 

There  was  a  silence,  broken  by  Reymond: 
"But  there  are  the  Germans  and  the  Alsatians?  " 
"  Certainly.  But  it's  not  very  easy  to  distinguish  them 
with  the  naked  eye.  .  .  .  It's  very  difficult  to  know  what 
people  think  when  you  can't  understand  what  they  say. 
In  books,  of  course  .  .  .  zim,  boom,  up  with  sentiment! 
In  real  life  profit  is  the  main  thing.  And  then,  you  know, 
it  is  a  long  time  since  the  annexation.  A  good  deal  of 
water  has  flowed  under  the  bridges  since  the  war.  One 
must  live.  You  see,  I  don't  blame  them.  .  .  .  Mean- 
while, it  is  not  very  lively." 

The  train  stopped.  The  chemist  Coquart  jerked  his 
thumb  at  a  little  sunny  station  and  a  waiting  carriage. 

"This  is  Landbach.  I  suppose  you  get  out  here? 
Your  employer's  house  is  nearer  here  than  Friedensbach. 
Oh!  you  have  plenty  of  time.  The  express  is  in  no  great 
hurry.  Look,  those  urchins  who  are  coming  forward 
are  your  pupils.     So  long!     Delighted  to  have  met  you." 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  11 

The  two  boys  approached  shyly,  hat  in  hand.  They 
seemed  to  be  about  fourteen  and  fifteen  respectively. 
Jean,  the  elder,  tall  and  thin,  with  a  bird-like  head,  and 
an  attractive  expression,  touched  by  the  melancholy  of  a 
youth  growing  up  in  solitude;  Rene,  the  younger,  had  a 
more  knowing  air,  nice  round  cheeks,  and  a  roguish 
twinkle.  They  stammered :  "  Have  you  had  a  comfort- 
able journey.  Monsieur?  " 

The  coachman,  a  big  ruddy  fellow,  had  already  stowed 
away  the  luggage.  The  horses  sprang  forward,  shaking 
their  manes.  Master  and  pupils  examined  each  other 
stealthily.  Rene,  dilating  his  nostrils  and  pursing  up 
his  lips,  ventured  on  a  grimace,  followed  by  a  laugh. 

"  That  boy,"  said  Reymond  to  himself,  "  is  a  handful. 
If  I  don't  take  the  offensive,  and  attack  him  with  absurd- 
ities, my  authority  will  be  nipped  in  the  bud." 

Then,  suddenly: 

"  You  look  anaemic,  my  boy.  We  shall  have  to  take 
care  of  you.  And  what  do  you  think  of  the  future  of 
metaphysics?  " 

"  Monsieur,"  replied  the  bewildered  Rene,  "  I  don't 
know  them." 

"That's  your  fault.  They  go  about  a  good  deal. 
True,  you  live  somewhat  off  the  main  lines  of  communi- 
cation. And  how  old  is  the  aunt  of  the  municipal  sec- 
retary? " 

"  I  don't  know.  Monsieur." 

"Well,  is  she  any  better?" 

"  I  don't  know  her  at  all,  Monsieur." 


12  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

"  You  seem  to  know  no  one.  I  thought  you  would  have 
a  wider  circle  of  acquaintances." 

Rene,  completely  quelled,  was  reduced  to  silence.  The 
coachman,  whose  finger-tips  emerged  from  sleeves  too 
long  for  him,  drew  up  before  a  closed  iron  gate,  and 
cracked  his  whip  to  bring  the  lodge-keeper  out.  The 
man  hurried  forward,  readily  subservient.  The  carriage, 
somewhat  shy  of  conveying  its  cushions  through  this 
scene  of  labour,  bumped  over  the  uneven  slag,  passing 
diagonally  across  the  courtyard  of  the  factory,  which  was 
enclosed  by  low  synometrical  buildings  with  pointed 
roofs.  Behind  the  window-panes  gleamed  the  sudden 
light  of  a  reviving  fire  and  naked  torsoes;  elsewhere 
heads  were  seen  bent  over  ledgers;  on  every  side  there 
was  the  slap  of  transmission -belts,  the  whir  of  machinery, 
a  smell  of  oil  and  sweat,  and,  above  all  this,  a  plume 
of  smoke,  resolving  itself  slowly  into  a  fine  black  rain. 
Finally,  the  master's  house,  with  a  very  simple  fagade, 
disfigured  by  a  marquise  due  to  the  skill  of  some  local 
craftsman. 

After  the  questions  usually  put  to  a  traveller,  the 
party  sat  down  to  dinner.  It  was  evident  that  Monsieur 
Bohler  disliked  chatter.  Sitting  very  erect,  in  a  coat 
buttoned  up  to  the  cravat,  he  confined  himself  to  a  few 
brief  phrases,  as  if  his  business  cares  pursued  him  even 
in  the  family  circle.  The  square  forehead  enframed  in 
short  white  hair,  the  masterful  clean-cut  features,  the 
clear,  authoritative  look,  the  abrupt  gestures,  inspired 
fear  and  respect.     He  seemed  the  natural  centre  of  the 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  13 

group.  Madame  Bohler  sat  facing  him,  fair  and  slender, 
gay,  yet  with  a  touch  of  gravity  that  gave  an  extraordinary 
charm  to  her  pretty  face;  she  looked  very  young  beside 
her  big  sons,  to  whom  she  spoke  chiefly  by  smiles. 

To  keep  himself  in  countenance  Reymond  contem- 
plated the  decanters,  which  sparkled  in  the  lamplight. 
Embarrassed  by  this  speechless  reception,  he  systemati- 
cally refused  to  help  himself  a  second  time,  in  spite  of 
the  mute  insistence  of  an  old  servant,  who  pressed  the 
dishes  upon  him,  breathing  hard  into  his  ear.  He 
thought  to  himself:  "  We  might  be  in  the  crypt  of  a 
cathedral.  ...  I  wonder  if  they  dislike  me.  ...  I  can- 
not begin  to  tell  stories.  .  .  .  One  is  evidently  expected  to 
hold  one's  tongue." 

"  What  a  splendid  sunset  there  was  this  evening," 
said  Madame  Bohler,  unexpectedly.  "  The  Drumont  was 
ablaze." 

The  young  tutor  did  not  know  the  Drumont  yet.  Rene 
promised  to  show  it  to  him  the  following  morning  from 
the  schoolroom  window. 

They  went  into  the  drawing-room.  Reymond  held 
back  to  let  Monsieur  Bohler  pass. 

"  Please  go  first.     You  are  my  guest." 

"  I'm  afraid  we  shall  never  get  on  together,"  thought 
Reymond.  He  felt  very  lonely,  very  far  from  all  he 
loved. 

They  sat  down.  A  drawing-room  not  in  everyday  use 
is  as  dismal  as  a  family  vault.  Statuettes  stood  dully 
on  brackets.    The  Discobolus  seemed  to  have  lost  heart, 


14  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

and  to  have  given  up  the  idea  of  hurling  his  missile. 
There  were  corners  where  the  candelabra  shed  but  a 
feeble  glimmer.  On  the  walls  hung  some  uninteresting 
pictures.  But  a  violoncello  near  the  open  piano  spoke  of 
life  here. 

Madame  Bohler  questioned  Reymond.  Had  he  any 
brothers  and  sisters?  .  .  .  Seven!  There  was  a  moment 
of  stupefaction.  Did  he  live  on  the  shores  of  Lake 
Geneva? 

At  nine  o'clock  exactly,  Monsieur  Bohler  frowned. 

"  Come,  boys." 

They  were  pinching  each  other's  calves  on  a  corner  of 
the  sofa.  At  these  words,  which  were  repeated  every 
evening,  they  rose,  embraced  their  parents,  shook  hands 
with  their  tutor,  and  wished  him  good-night.  From  the 
corridor  came  the  sound  of  laughter  and  of  resounding 
slaps. 

"  Let  us  go  into  the  smoking-room." 

Suddenly,  Monsieur  Bohler  became  a  new  man.  He 
offered  Reymond  a  cigar.  He  himself,  stretched  out 
in  an  arm-chair,  lit  his  pipe,  puffed  out  a  cloud  of  smoke, 
smiled  benevolently,  and  began  to  talk  with  much  ani- 
mation. It  was  one  of  those  metamorphoses  often  to 
be  seen  in  those  who  are  a  prey  to  crushing  responsibili- 
ties; they  have  their  hours  of  expansion,  all  the  more 
attractive  for  being  rare. 

Reymond  was  to  learn  to  know  those  manufacturers 
of  the  small^  towns  scattered  among  the  Vosges  valleys, 
who  rise  at  six  every  day  of  their  lives,  and  go  to  work 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  15 

more  punctually  than  the  meanest  employe,  severe  to 
others  and  also  to  themselves,  a  part  of  the  machinery 
they  have  set  up,  the  slaves  of  that  machinery.  At  noon 
they  escape  for  an  hour.  And  in  the  evening,  when  the 
hooter  sounds  and  the  workmen  have  trooped  out  through 
the  iron  gates  with  a  clatter  of  sabots,  they  scan  the  prices 
of  wool  or  cotton,  run  through  the  letters  of  the  last  post, 
read  the  petition  of  the  man  dismissed  for  drunkenness, 
sign  a  hundred  papers  —  the  soul  of  the  great  enterprise 
which  gives  bread  to  hundreds  of  families. 

If  they  relax  their  grasp  the  whole  machine  creaks. 
The  last  lamp  to  be  extinguished  is  theirs.  Meals  are 
a  matter  of  business  which  must  be  despatched  expedi- 
tiously, like  all  the  rest.  And  looking  out  of  the  window 
as  they  fold  their  table-napkin,  they  see  the  courtyard 
where  the  rails  of  the  Decauvilles  gleam,  the  roofs  and 
chimneys  of  the  factory  which  never  suffers  them  to  for- 
get it  for  a  moment.  On  Sundays,  however,  they  call 
their  dogs.  Gaitered  and  clad  in  heather-mixtures,  pipe 
in  mouth  and  gun  on  shoulder,  they  take  the  road  that 
leads  to  the  forest.  When  these  men,  whom  the  people 
call  in  their  patois  the  Barons  of  the  Chimney-stacks, 
return  to  their  homes,  they  are  not  expansive.  The  win- 
dows of  the  ofi&ce  are  already  beckoning  to  them. 

Their  women  spend  much  time  alone;  while  their 
husbands  are  hunting  the  hare  or  playing  auction-bridge 
at  their  clubs,  their  horses  trot  along  the  road  that  winds 
like  a  ribbon  along  the  valley;  they  pay  visits  to  each 
other,  and  as  the  little  towns  are  far  enough  apart  to 


16  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

prevent  them  from  seeing  each  other  frequently,  yet  near 
enough  to  permit  of  weekly  intercourse,  they  have  many 
subjects  to  discuss  over  a  cup  of  tea.  They  talk  of  the 
last  play  published  by  U Illustration,  which  they  hope  to 
see  in  Paris  in  the  spring,  of  the  novel  just  begun  in  the 
review.  Meantime  the  children  play  in  the  garden, 
climbing  trees  and  dabbling  in  the  basin  of  the  fountain. 

Then  another  slow  week  begins  to  the  eternal  rhythm 
of  the  machines.  There  are  a  thousand  household  tasks: 
the  cleaning  days,  the  washing  days,  the  making  of 
Kougelhopfs,  for  the  Alsatian  housewife  is  her  cook's 
collaborator,  and  is  not  afraid  of  the  heat  of  the  stove. 
But  she  also  plays  her  part  in  civic  matters:  the  creche, 
the  orphan  school,  the  infirmary,  the  domestic  training 
school,  the  old  women  with  coughs.  Returning  from  her 
perambulations,  she  sits  down  to  her  piano.  And  still 
the  machines  rumble  on. 

It  is  a  life  of  austere  charm,  very  simple,  very  real  — 
a  solid  life  in  which  every  one  contributes  his  daily  effort 
imostentatiously.  And  thus  the  dyke  is  built  up  which 
the  enemy  cannot  pierce. 

All  this  Monsieur  Bohler  explained  to  his  boys'  tutor 
in  his  concise  speech. 

"We  are  counting  a  good  deal  on  you.  ...  I  am 
afraid  I  am  a  poor  kind  of  father.  It  is  a  serious  matter, 
I  know.  The  Socialist  gentry,  of  course,  think  we  all 
have  a  good  time.  As  a  fact,  we  are  slaves.  We  have  to 
struggle  unceasingly.  .  .  .  Competition,  overproduction. 
.  ,  .  And  Alsace  is  so  out-of-the-way,  so  far  from  ports 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  17 

and  coalfields.  Then  we  have  so  many  other  drawbacks. 
.  .  .  The  political  situation.  ...  It  is  an  arduous  game. 
One  has  to  be  always  on  the  spot  .  .  .  and  one's  family 
suffers.  ...  On  the  other  hand,  we  can  hold  no  inter- 
course with  the  officials  and  professors  .  .  .  and  the  re- 
sult is  isolation.  Each  man  shuts  himself  up  in  his  shell. 
We  have  to  be  self-sufficing.  The  education  of  our  sons 
is  a  problem  for  us.  There  are,  of  course,  the  official 
schools,  which  are  good,  and  even  excellent  up  to  a  cer- 
tain point,  but  they  destroy  individuality.  And,  be- 
sides, Alsatians  are  fed  on  lies  in  them.  You  see,  you 
will  have  to  be  a  great  deal  to  our  boys." 

"  I  will  do  my  best,"  replied  Reymond.  "  I  am  al- 
ready interested  in  them.  Rene  has  a  scientific  and  sport- 
ing bent,  I  should  say.  Jean  is  more  dreamy,  more 
literary." 

Both  father  and  mother  smiled,  touched  and  pleased. 

"Oh!  "  said  Madame  Bohler,  "Rene  is  still  a  child. 
He  is  barely  fourteen.  For  the  moment  he  is  all  for 
athleticism.  He  talks  of  nothing  but  matches  and  rec- 
ords. He  knows  the  names  of  all  the  boxers  in  the 
world.  But  he  has  a  good  heart.  Only  he  must  be 
handled  the  right  way,  firmly.  .  .  .  Jean  is  thoughtful. 
He  is  fond  of  music,  a  bit  sentimental,  philosophical  .  .  ." 

"  In  short,"  interrupted  Monsieur  Bohler,  "  they  are 
two  boys  much  like  other  boys,  not  ill-disposed,  not  un- 
intelligent, who  must  be  made  into  men." 

"You  might  tell  Monsieur  Reymond  about  his  other 
pupils .  on   Wednesday  and  Saturday   afternoons.     You 


18  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

must  know,  monsieur,  that  a  French  tutor  is  a  rara  avis 
among  us.     Everybody  wants  him." 

"  Yes,  it's  true.  Twice  a  week  you  will  have  a  little 
class.  You  must  not  boast  of  this,  for  it  will  rather 
exceed  the  educational  regulations.  Our  masters  dread 
the  diffusion  of  the  French  language  in  Alsace  above  all 
things.  The  number  of  pupils  authorized  to  take  a  course 
not  given  in  the  German  language  is  strictly  limited. 
So  your  lessons  will  take  the  form  of  walks  together,  if 
you  are  willing.  Besides  our  two  boys,  you  will  have 
Emile  Zumbach,  Andre  Berger,  and  Charles  Weiss,  my 
godson,  the  son  of  my  agent.  You  will  certainly  meet 
Monsieur  Weiss  presently.  He  will  teach  you  to  know 
and  love  the  Vosges.  He  is  a  delightful  person,  some- 
what of  a  dilettante,  a  great  collector  of  mushrooms, 
raiser  of  poultry  and  rabbits,  a  nursery  gardener,  a  horti- 
culturist, a  manufacturer,  and  I  know  not  what  besides. 
The  moving  spirit  of  our  Valley.  A  born  optimist.  And 
yet  he  has  had  a  great  grief.  Two  years  ago  his  eldest 
son  died  at  Munich  during  his  term  of  military  service." 

"At  Munich?" 

"  You  are  surprised.  But,  after  all,  some  Alsatians 
must  remain  in  Alsace.  Those  who  can  hold  their  own 
imder  the  whip  are  her  true  sons.  I  shall  send  my  boys 
to  France  in  two  years'  time;  but,  then,  my  wife  is  a 
Frenchwoman,  and  I  myself  fought  in  1870.  So  there 
are  things  which  are  impossible  to  us." 

There  was  a  sound  of  wheels  in  the  courtyard.  Ma« 
dame  Bohler  rose. 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  19 

"You  will  not  understand  our  old  Alsace  in  a  day. 
Elsewhere,  folks  live  and  let  live.  Here,  nothing  is 
simple.  If  one  goes,  it  is  exile.  If  one  remains,  it  is  a 
renewal  of  suffering  every  day.  .  .  .  But  I  think  the 
carriage  is  waiting  for  you.  You  will  lodge  at  Friedens- 
bach,  as  we  told  you,  with  the  old  Schmolers,  the  parents 
of  Madame  Vogel,  a  widow,  and  Mademoiselle  Stephanie 
Schmoler,  the  owners  of  the  restaurant  where  you  will 
take  your  meals.  They  are  excellent  people.  You  will 
only  have  to  come  down  one  story  from  your  bedroom 
to  the  dining-room.  You  will  have  companions :  chemists 
and  employes  of  our  offices,  a  few  Germans  also,  I  be- 
lieve —  officials.     But  I  think  they  have  a  separate  table." 

"  Isn't  there  a  Monsieur  Coquart  there?  We  travelled 
together." 

Monsieur  Bohler  began  to  laugh. 

"Oh!  he's  just  a  buffoon.  That's  why  the  Germans 
tolerate  him." 

In  the  darkness,  through  which  the  trickle  of  the  river 
could  be  heard,  the  carriage  rolled  along  an  unknown 
road.  Dogs  barked  indignantly  in  the  distance.  Then 
a  deep  calm  fell  on  everything.  A  woman  pulled  back 
a  curtain.  The  lowered  persiennes  twinkled  against  the 
black  walls  of  the  houses.  The  carriage  stopped  pres- 
ently in  the  heart  of  the  little  town  before  a  very  low 
house  which,  with  its  projecting  wings,  looked  like  a  sit- 
ting hen.  There  was  a  flutter  of  welcome,  in  spite  of  the 
late  hour.  Mademoiselle  Stephanie  held  the  lamp,  be- 
hind which  her  cheeks  shone  like  ripe  fruits.     Madame 


20  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

Vogel  was  a  highly  decorative  widow,  whose  professional 
smile  brought  out  a  most  attractive  dimple  on  either  side 
of  her  chin.  Reymond  was  shown  his  place  at  the  end  of 
a  table  already  set  for  tomorrow's  breakfast,  and  his 
luggage  was  carried  up  the  steep,  well  waxed  staircase 
leading  to  the  home  of  the  old  people. 

They  were  a  delicious  pair!  Rosy  and  benevolent, 
they  gazed  at  you  with  old-world  dignity:  the  old  man 
short,  bearded,  and  long-haired  like  a  Father  Christmas, 
with  an  amazingly  round  face  in  which  little  limpid  eyes 
twinkled  under  bristling  eyebrows.  His  wife,  who  wore 
a  white  cap  modestly  tied  under  her  chin,  submissive, 
bent,  and  wrinkled,  was  always  trotting  about,  no  one 
knew  why.  And  each  time  he  called  her,  often  for  no 
reason,  "  Jacobine!  "  she  replied  like  an  echo:  "What 
is  it,  Joseph?  "  This  she  said  in  French,  for  it  is  a  point 
of  honour  with  the  old  folks  to  speak  it  still,  more  or  less, 
with  that  Alsatian  accent  of  which  it  may  be  said  that 
if  heaven  and  earth  pass  away,  it  will  remain. 

Joseph  Schmoler  received  his  guest  gravely. 

"  You  will  be  very  quiet  here  with  us.  .  .  .  Only  our- 
selves, two  old  good-for-nothings,  our  two  daughters,  and 
Jacob,  our  little  grandson  of  nine,  a  very  obedient  child." 

Jacobine  showed  him  two  rooms  which  smelt  of  soap; 
he  saw  a  china  stove,  some  artless  engravings,  and  a  num- 
ber of  sea-shells,  relics  of  some  roaming  ancestor;  the 
bed  stood  on  high  legs,  and  was  surmounted  by  a  tester 
of  printed  cretonne. 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  21 

The  old  couple  retired  solemnly,  with  benedictions  on 
their  guest. 

Reymond  closed  his  eyes.  ...  In  his  dreams  he  saw 
Lake  Leman,  its  russet  shores  bending  over  the  smiling 
waters;  the  Basle  Munster  and  its  cloisters  paved  with 
tombstones,  the  Rhine  rolling  its  green  waves,  spiked 
helmets,  Coquart,  the  Bohlers'  drawing-room,  Joseph  and 
Jacobine,  the  little  Alsatian  town  under  the  stars.  .  .  . 


II 


Friedensbach, 
October  20,  1907. 

Dear  Parents, 

...  I  went  back  yesterday  to  old  Kraut,  to  give 
him  the  certificate  of  good  conduct  and  morals  you  sent 
me,  as  it  was  lacking  in  my  collection.  Kraut  planted  his 
spectacles  on  the  extreme  point  of  his  inquisitive  nose. 
After  going  through  all  my  papers  again,  one  by  one, 
examining  the  seals,  the  signature,  the  very  flourishes, 
he  finally  said  in  French,  also  paternally: 

"  You  have  an  excellent  certificate  of  morals  and  gen- 
eral conduct.  .  .  .  That's  more  essential  than  anything. 
.  .  .  You  are  going  to  teach  Monsieur  Bohler's  sons,  I 
understand?  .  .  .  Teach  them  French,  I  believe?  I 
speak  French  too,  like  a  good  many  Alsatians.  One  may 
be  a  true  German  and  yet  be  able  to  speak  foreign  lan- 
guages." 

I  maliciously  insinuated  once  more  that  I  am  a  French 
Swiss. 

I  thought  Kraut  had  suddenly  gone  mad.  He  grasped 
the  edge  of  his  desk  with  both  hands,  he  half  tore  himself 
away  from  the  well-being  of  his  padded  stool,  and  thrust- 
ing his  enormous  head  into  the  opening  in  the  grating, 
he  shouted,  tapping  on  his  stomach:  "And  your  heart. 
...  Is  it  Swiss  or  French?  "     I  drew  back  in  alarm. 

22 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  23 

Kraut  then,  seeing  my  confusion,  fell  back  upon  his  stool, 
and  laughed  as  he  laughs  in  the  restaurant  when  some  one 
explains  a  pun  for  his  benefit  —  laughed  long  and  loud, 
with  face,  throat,  shoulders,  and  stomach.  By  degrees 
the  paroxysm  subsided.     Then  Kraut  concluded: 

"Thank  you.  Monsieur  le  Professeur.  Everything  is 
in  order.  As  an  Alsatian,  I  welcome  you  to  our  German 
soil." 

As  twelve  o'clock  was  about  to  strike,  and  Monsieur 
Kraut  began  to  take  off  his  black  calico  sleeves,  I  offered 
him  a  cigar,  which  he  accepted  very  naturally.  The 
negroes,  we  are  told,  appease  the  fury  of  their  gods  by 
little  presents.  Why  should  not  civilized  persons  use 
the  same  methods  to  propitiate  an  omnipotent  bureau- 
cracy? 

The  Schmolers  tell  me  that  this  Kraut  is  not  a  bad 
fellow;  he  loves  his  ease  above  all  things;  as  to  being 
an  Alsatian,  he  comes  straight  from  the  heart  of  Thu- 
ringia.  He  is  one  of  the  innumerable  Germans  who  have 
fallen  on  Alsace-Lorraine  as  starlings  flock  to  a  vineyard 
of  ungarnered  grapes.  They  are  very  comfortable  there. 
They  increase  and  multiply.  They  burrow  into  the  soil. 
They  say  unctuously:  "  Unser  Elsass,  our  Alsace!  " 
And  their  children  learn  the  patois  of  the  country. 
These  sons  of  true-born  Pomeranians  and  Brandenburgh- 
ers  even  come  to  treat  those  on  the  other  side  of  the 
Rhine  as  Schwobs.  But  the  blood  that  flows  in  their 
veins  has  a  basis  of  beer,  and  not  of  Riquewihr  wine. 
They  retain  that  love  of  the  colossal,  that  passion  for 


24  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

bowing,  that  subservience  to  the  world  of  command,  that 
collectivity  of  soul,  of  which  the  true  Alsatian  knows 
nothing. 

I  am  amused  to  see  old  Kraut  every  evening  at  the 
restaurant.  He  lords  it  at  the  German  table  with  the 
head-keeper  of  the  forest,  the  magistrate,  a  secretary  of 
the  excise,  and  a  few  humbler  scribes.  It  seems  that  he 
has  been  a  widower  for  five  years.  His  children  are  out 
in  the  world.  So  Kraut  is  dull.  His  heart  stirs  within 
him.  He  fixes  a  melting  eye  on  the  cunningly  arranged 
tresses  of  our  hostess,  Madame  Louise  Vogel,  the  hand- 
some Alsatian  widow.  With  his  goggle  eyes,  his  puny 
shoulders,  his  gasping  breath,  he  is  like  a  frog  hypno- 
tized by  a  water-lily.  It  is  obvious  that  for  him  marriage 
with  an  Alsatian  would  crown  the  work  of  annexation. 

When  we  joke  Madame  Vogel  about  this,  she  replies 
calmly: 

"  Monsieur  Kraut  is  an  excellent  customer." 

She  sees  in  him  only  the  man  who  pays. 

There  are,  you  must  know,  two  tables  at  the  restaurant, 
two  water-tight  compartments.  The  assortment  takes 
place  without  any  previous  arrangement,  each  person 
following  his  instinct.  Aunt  Emma  must  not  protest.  I 
think  that  if  strangers  had  seized  one  of  our  cantons, 
we  Swiss  would  hold  ourselves  aloof  from  them.  It  is 
a  highly  moral  impulse.  I  play  my  part  in  this  defensive 
operation  discreetly.  At  the  end  of  the  room  the  officials 
sit  in  state.  Fixing  a  napkin  between  two  buttons  of 
a  waistcoat  becomes  a  rite.     A  sonorous  Mahlzeit  stands 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  25 

for  a  prayer.  After  this,  eating  begins  —  the  essential 
thing,  as  Kraut  says.  At  a  quarter-past  one  they  retire 
with  military  punctuality,  after  a  bow,  invariably  of  the 
same  depth.  During  the  meal,  the  two  tables  —  at  ours 
we  have  Coquart,  the  disillusioned  chemist,  and  some 
half-dozen  Alsatians  —  ignore  each  other.  At  one  the 
diners  flourish  and  Zeit,  the  Strassburger  Post,  at  the 
other  the  Express  or  the  Journal  d' Alsace-Lorraine, 
Morally  the  bolts  are  shot.  The  two  groups  bow  to  each 
other  on  arrival  and  on  departure.  They  never  go  be- 
yond this.  I  can  imagine  nothing  more  correct  and 
more  dignified. 

The  other  day,  after  the  officials  had  made  their  bows, 
I  asked  the  Alsatian  Kleinlogel :  "  Do  you  bear  them 
such  a  grudge  as  all  that?  "  He  replied:  "  Oh!  they're 
quite  amiable"  (chentils) .  I  saw  that  it  would  be  use- 
less to  insist.  I  am  as  yet  too  new  in  the  country  to 
invite  confidences.  Then  Friedensbach  numbers  less  than 
two  thousand  inhabitants.  Everything  is  repeated.  So 
the  two  races  live  side  by  side.  They  have  need  one  of 
another.  But  they  scrupulously  respect  the  clauses  of  a 
tacit  convention.  They  sulk,  without  indulging  in  futile 
provocation.  This  is  what  makes  Coquart  say  some- 
times: "  After  all,  which  are  you,  French  or  German?  " 
They  answer,  not  unintelligently:  "We  are  Alsatians." 
The  day  before  yesterday  Coquart  lost  his  temper: 
"Alsatians!  Alsatians!  One  is  either  French  or  Ger- 
man! "  Kleinlogel  answered  very  calmly:  "What  one 
gays  and  what  one  thinks  are  not  quite  the  same  thing." 


26  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

When  he  is  alone  with  me,  Coquart  vociferates: 
"  They  have  no  blood  in  their  veins.  And  these  are  the 
best.     Imagine  what  the  others  are." 

"  And  what  should  we  do  in  their  place?  " 

Coquart  whistled  between  his  teeth :  "  Malbrouck  s'en 
va  en  guerre." 

A  week  ago  I  began  to  take  German  lessons  from  the 
schoolmaster  Kummel.  By  chance  one  day,  behind  the 
post  of  the  level  crossing,  I  asked  the  way  of  this  gaunt 
magister.  After  this,  we  bowed  to  each  other  when  we 
met.  And  now  I  am  his  pupil.  I  should  no  doubt  have 
done  better  if  I  had  gone  to  the  other  teacher,  an 
Alsatian,  whereas  Kummel  is  a  Prussian.  I  did  not 
know  this  when  I  made  the  arrangement.  .  .  .  Poor 
Kummel !  He  is  nauseously  pedagogic,  very  obsequious. 
The  phrase  "  to  profit "  has  no  secrets  for  him.  Some- 
times I  am  not  sure  whether  it  is  I  who  am  learning 
German  or  he  who  is  learning  French.  As  the  lessons 
progress,  he  gradually  unmasks  his  batteries.  He  is  bent 
on  converting  me,  and  shows  a  pertinacity  which  amuses 
me.  German  virtues!  German  order!  the  blessings  of 
German  culture!     German  administration! 

Aunt  Emma  urged  me  so  strongly  to  be  prudent  that 
I  confine  myself  to  listening.  Moreover,  I  am  ready  to 
admit  that  the  German  postal  system  and  the  German 
railways  are  as  near  perfection  as  possible.  So,  if  the 
Alsatians  nevertheless  show  themselves  hostile  to  the 
regime,  it  must  be  because  other  things  go  to  the  creation 
of  patriotism  —  such  things  as  memory,  sentiment,  and 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  27 

dignity.     But  what  would  be  the  use  of  explaining  this 
to  Kummel! 

I  will  end  with  a  few  words  about  my  pupils,  of  whom 
I  wrote  to  you  at  length  in  my  last  letter.  We  are  be- 
coming very  good  friends.  I  arrange  their  work  as  I 
think  best:  Latin,  Greek,  French,  history,  geography, 
etc. —  all  that  a  young  passman  is  expected  to  have  in 
stock.  They  are  just  what  I  supposed:  Jean  subtle  and 
imaginative,  Rene  more  vital,  more  spritely,  much  in- 
terested in  geology  as  long  as  one  discourses  of  volcanoes, 
because  volcanoes  vomit  stones  and  fire.  On  Wednesday 
and  Saturday  afternoons  I  am  in  charge  of  a  band  of  five 
urchins.  We  go  for  walks,  and  talk  about  a  great  many 
things.  You  cannot  imagine  how  Alsatian  and  French 
these  boys  are,  but  they  are  French  because  they  are 
Alsatian.  They  discuss  politics  and  strategy  with  de- 
licious gravity.     I  will  write  further  on  this  head.  .  .  . 


Ill 

THIS  morning  the  conscripts  went  off  singing. 
From  a  sky  but  lightly  veiled  in  clouds  a  dust  of 
fine  rain  was  falling,  washing  the  brilliant  foliage  of  the 
trees  which  flaunted  on  the  hill-sides  like  red  and  yellow 
banners.  And  with  this  dust  of  rain  a  gentle  melancholy 
fell  from  heaven,  punctuated  by  the  tinkle  of  the  cow- 
bells. 

And  the  conscripts  went  off  singing.  The  day  was  like 
all  other  days.  At  the  usual  hour  old  Catherine  came 
to  fill  her  pail  at  the  fountain,  in  which  her  goitre  was 
reflected  for  a  moment  on  the  dancing  waters,  mingling 
with  the  image  of  the  pot-bellied  deity  who  squats  be- 
tween the  garrulous  water- jets.  .  .  .  Twenty  times  at 
least  during  the  day  old  Schmoler  went  to  the  window  and 
leaned  upon  the  sill.  From  the  street  all  that  was  to  be 
seen  of  him  was  his  pipe,  his  nose,  and  his  otter-skin 
cap.  And  twenty  times  Jacobine  asked  him:  "What 
can  you  be  looking  at  from  that  window?  "  To  which 
twenty  times  the  old  man  made  answer  in  his  rugged 
patois:  "  Ech  lueg  was  ech  lueg"  (I  am  looking  at 
what  I  am  looking  at) . 

What  he  saw  was  always  the  same,  yet  always  new,  like 
life.  The  main  street  running  parallel  with  the  valley 
and  the  ten  side-streets,  tumbling  down  the  slopes  and 

28 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  29 

rushing  into  it,  like  torrents  into  a  river;  the  stream  trip- 
ping and  murmuring  over  the  moss-grown  paving  stones; 
a  woman  throwing  the  parings  of  her  vegetables  into  it, 
queer-looking  things,  green  and  white,  which  run  along 
the  water,  catch  in  the  eddies,  escape,  and  dance  away. 
Then  a  procession  of  geese.  They  are  replete.  They 
come  and  seat  themselves  in  a  circle  before  a  door,  to 
gossip  and  digest.  The  gander,  like  some  admiral's 
vessel,  with  his  smooth  sides  and  his  prow-like  breast, 
waddles  majestically.  He  sees  the  green-and-white  ob- 
jects, and  stretches  out  his  beak.  The  geese  dart  for- 
ward, rolling  and  pitching,  splashing  in  the  stream, 
screaming  angrily.  Now  they  are  sitting  again  in  front 
of  a  doorstep,  where  they  look  like  a  heap  of  snow  fallen 
from  the  roof. 

Now  it  is  the  children's  turn.  With  their  petticoats 
tucked  up,  grave  and  unseemly,  they  lay  walnut-shells 
upon  the  stream.  A  dog  laps  the  water,  a  cat  jumps 
across  it,  wets  her  paws,  shakes  them,  and  runs  away. 
And  it  is  the  same  thing  all  the  week:  the  older  children 
being  at  school,  and  all  who  can  work  at  the  factory, 
there  are  only  the  infants  and  the  old  people  left  —  all 
who  go  on  all  fours,  as  Schmoler  says. 

But  we  must  not  forget  Herzog  the  shoemaker  and  his 
apprentice,  always  busy  behind  their  shop-window,  sew- 
ing a  vamp,  cutting  leather,  waxing  thread ;  and  the  shoe- 
maker's bald  head  is  shaken  by  the  vibration  of  the  ham- 
mer as  it  strikes  a  sole,  as  is  also  the  curly  red  pate  of 
the  apprentice. 


30  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

At  ten  in  the  morning  and  four  in  the  afternoon  Herzog 
goes  to  the  Golden  Cask,  where  he  drinks  a  humpe. 
When  he  returns  to  his  last,  dragging  his  slippers  on  the 
uneven  stones,  a  white  froth  hangs  in  stalactites  from  his 
moustache,  which  he  wipes  with  his  sleeve.  He  fought  at 
Gravelotte,  but  it  is  difficult  to  get  the  story  of  his 
campaign  out  of  him,  for  he  only  embarks  upon  it  when 
he  is  drunk;  and  this  has  not  happened  since  Justice 
Doring  sentenced  him  to  pay  a  fine  of  fifty  marks  and 
spend  a  month  in  prison  for  having  associated  Prussia 
too  intimately  with  the  memory  of  the  late  Marshal  Cam- 
bronne.  Accordingly,  he  drinks  his  humpe  in  the  morn- 
ing, his  humpe  in  the  afternoon,  and  perhaps  two  or  three 
in  the  evening,  but  never  more.  Thus  his  will  dominates 
his  feelings;  the  inner  depths  remain  hidden,  all  he  shows 
is  a  grimace;  he  lives  with  his  truth,  no  longer  external- 
izing it. 

.  .  .  And  sometimes,  on  wheels  with  groaning  axles, 
the  trunks  of  Vosgian  pines  are  borne  along,  exuding 
resin,  breathing  the  aroma  of  sylvan  solitude.  Some  of 
them  grew  on  summits  whence  may  be  seen  a  corner  of 
France,  gleaming  roofs,  a  valley  like  a  carpet  with  green 
and  grey  and  yellow  patches,  marking  plots  of  cultivated 
ground.  Born  French,  these  trees  too  have  to  die  Ger- 
man; like  the  conscripts,  they  are  on  their  way  to  the 
distant  provinces  of  Germany.  Men  accompany  them, 
the  thongs  of  their  whips  twisted  round  their  necks  — 
woodmen  with  bristly  manes,  sturdy  fellows  who  raise 
their  voices  to  dominate  the  grinding  of  the  axles,  and  in- 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  31 

terlard  every  sentence  with  Gottverdammi!  These  tree- 
trunks,  these  men,  jolt  and  swear  over  the  pavement  of 
the  town,  rouse  the  geese,  who  get  up  and  protest,  excite 
the  dogs,  defile  past  the  fountain  where  the  pot-bellied 
water-god  sits  enthroned,  and  past  another  where  the 
cock  presides,  drowning  the  tinkle  of  the  water.  Gradu- 
ally they  move  into  the  distance ;  one  sees  only  the  croups 
of  the  horses,  the  long,  light  streak  of  the  trunk,  the  man's 
blue  blouse,  swaying  to  and  fro,  diminishing,  finally 
disappearing.  .  .  . 

A  frock-coat  on  a  stiff  back,  a  neck  forming  three  pink 
folds  over  a  tight  collar,  a  tall  hat  on  a  head  amply 
furnished  with  jaw:  it  is  the  Justice  of  the  Peace.  Boots, 
a  portly  torso  clad  in  green,  eyes  that  run  from  door  to 
door,  from  window  to  window,  the  spike  of  a  helmet: 
it  is  the  Policeman.  Worthy  men,  on  the  whole,  faithful 
to  their  duty,  which  is  to  draw  up  indictments  and  to 
condemn.  But  so  distant,  so  rigid,  so  inflated,  that  when 
one  sees  them  marching  with  measured  tread  through 
the  peace  of  the  little  Alsatian  town,  frowning  at  the 
gaiety  of  the  houses  with  their  spritely  roofs,  so  firmly 
fixed  in  principles,  so  imbued  with  a  vexatious  spirit 
of  authority,  so  unmistakably  representative  of  the  royal 
and  imperial  race,  one  is  conscious  of  an  error  of  taste, 
a  mistake  in  style.  The  stream,  the  half-naked  children, 
the  modest  facades,  the  gurgling  fountains,  are  out  of 
scale.  The  one  element  is  too  gay,  too  much  inclined 
to  irony,  too  human ;  the  other  too  lofty,  too  irascible,  too 
unbending,  too  haughty.     Hence  the  geese  have  risen 


32  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

once  more:  in  battle  array,  with  outstretched  beaks  and 
turned-in  toes,  they  proclaim  that  which  the  natives  keep 
to  themselves,  and  clamour  urgently:  "It  won't  do! 
It  won't  do."  The  ofl&cials  do  not  even  smile.  They 
would  excite  less  ill-will  were  they  to  smile.  But  no;  it 
is  written  that  they  shall  never  smile,  that  they  shall 
frown  persistently,  stamp  on  the  pavement,  arch  their 
hips,  draw  up  unyielding  necks.  And  so  fear  arises  in 
their  wake,  and  sometimes  hatred.  It  might  be  supposed 
that  they  prefer  this  state  of  things.  Yet  they  are  strict, 
honest,  punctual  people.     Officials,  soldiers,  not  men. 

At  certain  hours,  nevertheless,  the  street  becomes  ani- 
mated. There  is  a  sudden  outburst,  as  if  a  man  should 
come  and  open  the  lock-gates  of  slumbering  waters. 
"  Go !  "  said  Messrs.  Kummel  and  Herrenschmid,  walking 
away  with  their  hands  clasped  on  the  tails  of  their  coats. 
What  a  rush  of  children!  They  are  like  a  flock  of  spar- 
rows settling  upon  a  newly  ploughed  field.  They  run, 
they  clamber  up  and  down  the  double  flights  of  doorsteps, 
they  spit  into  the  fountain,  dance  round  the  protesting 
geese,  jump  into  the  stream,  clatter  their  sabots  on  the 
pavement,  chanting  a  curious  doggerel: 

"  Wenn  der  Kater  nicht  haarig  ist 
Fangt  er  keine  Mause." 

**  Unless  the  torn  be  long  of  hair, 
Never  a  mouse  will  fall  to  his  share." 

Putting  o£F  their  sabots  for  slippers,  the  children  pres- 
ently appear  at  the  windows,  gnawing  a  hunk  of  bread. 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  33 

Once  more  the  lock-gates  are  closed.  And  again  they 
are  opened  at  the  signal  of  the  hooter,  a  piercing  scream 
that  dies  away  in  the  minor.  On  the  road  are  bare- 
headed women,  laughing  girls,  boys  smoking,  men  carry- 
ing their  jackets  over  their  arms.  The  day  of  toil  is  over! 
The  toiler  may  sit  on  the  bench  outside  his  house  and 
play  a  mouth-organ,  or  dig  in  his  garden,  or  make  love 
to  his  fair  neighbour.  .  .  . 

And  now,  as  every  one  is  at  home,  the  big  vegetable 
hc.vker  swings  his  bell;  the  public. crier  —  with  a  red 
nose  and  a  wooden  leg  —  beats  his  drum  before  announc- 
ing that  Ulrich  Schuhmacher  offers  the  public  the  meat 
of  his  old  cow  at  a  mark  a  pound.  A  sound  as  of  hail 
on  a  roof  —  hundreds  of  little  hoofs  tapping  on  the  pave- 
ment —  and  here  come  the  goats !  In  front  of  the  forest 
of  horns  walks  an  old  man,  whose  beard,  stirred  by  the 
effort  of  his  throat,  sways  comically  when  he  blows  the 
horn.  The  creatures  stand  straddling,  so  full  are  their 
udders,  and  each  bleats  at  its  own  door,  till  it  opens  at 
last. 

It  is  easy  now  to  understand  why  old  Schmoler,  lean- 
ing on  the  window-sill  twenty  times  a  day,  should  have 
answered  twenty  times,  "  I  am  looking  at  what  I  am  look- 
ing at." 

A  little  society,  the  rhythm  of  habit.  Nothing  hap- 
pens. The  sun  rises  over  one  rounded  height  and  sets 
behind  another.  Nowhere  does  he  illuminate  a  more 
peaceful  valley.  And  yet  the  fathers  of  those  who  live 
here  once,  in  a  terrible  hour,  cried  aloud :     "  We  declare 


34  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

the  right  of  the  Alsatians  and  Lorrains  to  remain  mem- 
bers of  the  French  nation  for  ever  inviolable,  and  we 
swear  for  ourselves,  our  children,  end  their  descendants, 
to  urge  it  eternally,  by  every  possible  means,  to  and 
against  all  usurpers." 

Since  then  nearly  forty  years  have  passed,  two  genera- 
tions. 

And  the  conscripts  went  off  this  morning.  There  were 
twenty  of  them,  all  sturdy  lads,  all  born  in  the  little  town, 
all  bred  on  this  soil,  sons  of  the  ancient  land  of  Alsace, 
grandsons  of  those  who  fought  at  Wissembourg,  many  of 
whom  are  still  alive. 

For  a  week  past,  the  conscripts  had  been  drinking  and 
singing.  They  must  needs  forget  themselves  for  a  while, 
since  they  are  going  so  far  away,  for  two  whole  years. 
They  took  up  their  station  in  the  wine-shops  betimes,  in 
the  morning.  And  they  sang  the  songs  they  knew,  the 
slow,  sad  songs  they  learned  at  school,  songs  brought 
back  by  their  elders  from  the  German  barracks.  Forty 
years!  Habit  weaves  its  strands.  Hearts  grow  numb, 
perhaps.  A  boundary-mark  is  but  a  stone,  but  it  is  also 
the  limit  of  language,  the  point  beyond  which  everything 
changes,  and  which  one  cannot  pass  without  leaving  be- 
hind one  for  ever  the  house,  the  garden,  the  old  folks, 
the  graves. 

And  these  conscripts  are  twenty  years  old!  At  twenty 
one  must,  of  course,  laugh,  drink,  and  sing,  put  a  flower 
in  one's  button-hole,  a  garland  round  one's  hat,  dance 
to  the  sound  of  the  concertina,  run  after  the  girls,  and 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  35 

show  oneself  in  the  public  square.  Holding  each  other 
by  the  litttle  finger,  they  tramp  along  heavily  in  fours, 
as  they  will  march  tomorrow.  They  sing  U Alsace  est  un 
beau  pays,  Mon  amour,  ne  f  eloigne  pas  trop  de  moi,  and 
many  other  songs  which  speak  of  the  Rhine,  and  in  which 
the  word  Heimat  (home)  recurs  constantly,  with  heavy 
emphasis.  What  Heimat?  .  .  .  Meanwhile  the  drum 
beats;  they  march  round  the  fountain,  ribbons  and  flags 
fluttering,  that  red-and-white  flag  of  which  the  old  people 
say:  "  When  it  floats  against  the  blue  of  the  sky,  we  get 
the  colour  we  miss."     Do  they  really  miss  that  blue? 

The  conscripts  have  marched  past  for  the  last  time, 
valise  in  hand.  There  is  a  crowd  at  the  station.  They 
clamber  into  the  carriages.  They  cry:  "  Good-bye!  good 
luck!  "  They  are  going  to  Danzig,  to  Poland,  to  the 
fleet.  The  magistrate,  raising  his  hand,  wishes  them  a 
" Gute  Reise"  (good  journey).  They  make  no  reply. 
The  whistle  sounds,  the  train  moves.  The  crowd  wave 
handkerchiefs.  But  they  are  men ;  they  are  twenty  years 
old;  they  wave  their  caps  and  shout  incoherent  things 
which  the  train  bears  away  among  the  autumn  trees. 

Without  ceasing  to  hammer  his  sole,  the  shoemaker 
Herzog  mutters :  "  Geese  are  fattened  up  before  their 
necks  are  wrung." 

Reymond  was  still  constantly  on  the  look-out  for  the 
Alsace  of  the  novels;  the  Alsace  where  "  Hurrah  for 
France !  "  is  shouted  in  the  face  of  the  police ;  the  Alsace 
where  fathers  curse  their  daughters  vehemently  for  dar- 


36  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

ing  to  cast  a  glance  at  the  handsome  officer  who  passes. 
The  evolutions  of  the  conscript,  their  paper  garlands, 
their  songs,  their  noisy  departure,  had  affected  him  pain- 
fully. For,  after  all,  these  grandsons  of  the  vanquished 
were  going  to  put  on  the  spiked  helmet,  swear  fidelity  to 
the  Emperor,  offer  their  youth  to  the  Empire. 

He  spoke  of  this  to  his  companions  in  the  restaurant, 
after  the  officials  had  withdrawn.  Coquart  tittered. 
Seizing  an  empty  bottle  by  way  of  a  guitar,  he  again 
began  to  vocalize:     "Alsace-Lorraine  .  .  ." 

"  It  is  very  easy  to  make  fun  of  people,"  said  one  of 
the  Alsatians  with  smothered  anger.  "  I,  too,  have  served 
in  the  German  Army.  I  am  a  sergeant  .  .  .  There  are 
only  three  courses  open  to  us:  we  may  go  for  good  and 
give  up  our  country;  we  may  break  our  rifles  and  rot  in 
prison;  we  may  submit  and  put  on  the  spiked  helmet.  I 
say  submit  ...  I  do  not  say  accept." 

"  No !  "  exclaimed  the  others. 

"But  there  are  ways  of  doing  so,"  objected  Coquart, 
"  No  one  forces  them  to  sing." 

"They  sing?  But  what  does  it  come  to?  Words  ex- 
pressing the  pleasure  of  fellowship,  nothing  more.  They 
drink,  they  become  excited,  they  march  in  step,  they  sing, 
hardly  knowing  what  they  sing." 

"  And  if  you  had  had  the  Germans  on  your  back  for 
forty  years!  "  said  another. 

"I  think  we  should  have  held  out  better  in  Switzer- 
land," said  Reymond  with  ingenuous  pride. 

"  We  shall  see  when  you  have  tried  it,"  said  the  young 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  37 

man  who  spoke  with  the  most  pronounced  accent.  "  You 
don't  know  the  Alsatian.  He  loathes  gestures  and 
speeches.  He  keeps.  He  hides.  He  does  not  show  his 
roots  to  every  one.  In  short,  he  is  an  Alsatian.  They 
killed  my  grandfather  at  Sedan.  And  I  serve  in  the 
German  Army.  But  this  does  not  alter  the  fact  that  they 
killed  my  grandfather.  Still,  I  don't  propose  to  chalk 
it  up  on  the  doors.  I  know  it.  That  is  enough.  The 
reckoning  is  paid  on  great  occasions.  Meanwhile,  one 
has  to  live." 

They  ceased  talking.  Shortly  afterwards,  Reymond 
paid  a  visit  to  the  old  Schmolers.  And  he  put  the  same 
question  to  them  incidentally. 

"  What  do  you  think  about  those  conscripts?  They 
seemed  quite  pleased  to  go." 

Schmoler  tried  to  explain. 

"  They  are  young.  .  .  .  It's  their  first  journey.  .  .  ." 

"  Then,  have  they  '  rallied  '  to  the  occupying  Power?  " 

"Rallied?"  repeated  Schmoler.  "What  does  that 
mean?  " 

"  Well,  have  they  become  German?  " 

"  They  are  not  German,  for  they  are  Alsatian.  But 
to  protest  every  day  for  forty  years  is  beyond  the  strength 
of  man.  There  is  no  resistance  to  force.  But  none 
knows  what  is  going  on  beneath  the  surface.  The 
Alsatian  is  tenacious." 

Schmoler  laughed  and  took  a  pinch  of  snuff.  The  tall 
clock  in  its  wooden  case  groaned  before  striking  ten, 
as  if  some  aged  soul  where  stirring  within  it,    Jacobine 


38  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

had  crossed  her  toil-worn  hands  on  her  black  alpaca 
apron.     Thrusting  out  her  little  withered  chin,  she  said: 

"  The  less  one  talks  about  such  things  the  better.  Each 
district  provides  its  people,  you  know.  .  .  .  The  postman 
here  stands  by  the  Schwobs,  but  he  has  two  brothers  in 
the  Foreign  Legion." 

This  postman,  Julius  Bader,  was  a  merry  fellow  who 
came  up  the  steps  whistling,  knocked  at  the  doors  with  a 
"  Good-day  "  to  the  inmates,  and  went  off  again  whistling. 
To  any  one  who  would  listen  to  him  he  would  say :  "  I 
a  French  postman?     I  get  double  his  pay." 

And  so  he  had  two  brothers  with  the  French  colours 
—  two  brothers  who  had  sacrificed  everything  to  obey  a 
sort  of  instinct,  a  tradition. 

"  The  less  one  talks  of  such  things  the  better,"  repeated 
Jacobine. 

And  Schmoler  added;     "  No  resistance  to  force." 

Each  had  a  formula. 

"And  what  does  Jacob  think  of  it  all?  " 

Reymond  pulled  the  ear  of  the  child,  who  looked  up, 
surprised. 

"May  he  know  nothing  worse  than  we  old  ones  have 
known!  " 

"  Do  you  believe  there  will  be  another  war?  " 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  say.     God  guides  the  ship." 

Hereupon  they  parted. 

When  he  returned  to  his  own  room,  Reymond  contem- 
plated the  tiles  of  his  stove,  ornamented  with  Alsatian 
couples  waltzing;  the  engravings  hanging  on  the  walls,  of 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  39 

Napoleon  at  St.  Helena,  the  rush  of  the  Zouaves  at 
Malakoff,  the  charge  of  the  Cuirassiers  at  Reichshoffen. 
.  .  .  And  he  thought  of  the  three  generations  of  Alsa- 
tians: the  timid  old  people  who  had  witnessed  the  great 
disaster,  the  two  worthy  women  who  sold  their  soup 
impartially  to  both  camps,  the  little  boy  of  nine,  destined, 
perhaps,  to  see  great  and  horrible  things. 

Meanwhile,  the  child  was  going  to  bed  on  the  other  side 
of  the  wall.  The  grandfather  was  chanting  a  prayer  in 
a  cracked  voice.  Shortly  afterwards  the  three  genera- 
tions were  snoring  in  different  keys. 

Bending  over  his  work-table,  Reymond  corrected  the 
compositions  of  his  pupils.  The  theme  was  the  speech 
of  a  Gaul  chieftain :  "  The  chief  declared  that  liberty 
is  the  supreme  good."  In  general  the  essays  were  awk- 
ward, confused,  and  diffuse,  but  they  rang  true.  Here 
and  there  both  Jean  and  Rene  seemed  to  utter  a  cry  from 
the  heart;  their  summaries  were  almost  eloquent,  ani- 
mated by  a  fine  sincerity  born  of  suffering.  Rene  put 
phrases  of  vigorous  familiarity  into  the  chief's  mouth: 

"To  deprive  men  of  their  liberty,  to  tear  them  from 
the  country  they  love,  is  disgusting!  "  Jean,  more  liter- 
ary, wrote :  "  It  is  conceivable  that  man  should  live  in 
poverty,  or  as  a  cripple,  but  not  as  a  slave!  Liberty  is 
not  a  blessing;  it  is  life  itself." 

The  clock  struck  eleven.  The  Alsatian  conscripts 
rolled  forward  in  the  darkness. 

How  beautiful  1$  All  Souls'  Day  in  this  land  of  grief! 


40  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

.  .  .  The  dead  speak.  They  have  a  memory,  a  thought, 
a  will  to  transmit.  In  other  places  they  sleep.  Mourn- 
ers visit  their  graves  and  lay  flowers  on  them,  but  they 
are  wrapped  in  their  formidable  sleep,  strangers  to  the 
living,  and  so  remote!  They  are,  as  we  say,  in  the  other 
world. 

In  Alsace  one  feels  them,  knows  that  they  are  very  near, 
because  only  they  can  knit  up  the  thread  of  tradition,  so 
brutally  severed. 

Early  in  the  morning  on  All  Saints'  Day  the  bells 
of  Friedensbach  rang  out,  first  a  single  one,  a  voice  put- 
ting a  question,  then  the  three,  sometimes  in  a  full  peal, 
sometimes  very  softly,  as  if  a  conversation  were  going 
on  at  the  top  of  the  belfry,  a  murmur  that  the  November 
mist  shuts  in  to  the  nest  of  stone. 

Boys  and  girls,  husbands  and  wives,  old  men  and  old 
women,  have  come  out  of  their  houses  and  closed  the 
doors,  but  have  not  locked  them,  for  no  one  is  distrustful 
on  All  Saints'  Day.  .  .  .  The  church  is  full.  People 
are  standing  in  the  passages,  and  under  the  porch  where 
the  shining  ropes  hang.  The  old  priest  is  in  the  pulpit. 
He  speaks  to  his  flock  in  the  rugged  patois  which  is  the 
fruit  of  the  race.  He  is  not  eloquent,  he  is  something 
far  better.  Speaking  quietly  and  without  action,  his  head 
inclining  a  little  to  one  shoulder,  he  holds  communion 
with  eternal  things.  He  speaks  to  the  dead,  or  rather  to 
the  living  one  no  longer  sees  passing  along  the  streets 
of  the  town;  for  he  knows  only  the  people  of  God,  those 
who  live  at  Friedensbach,  and  those  who  live  elsewhere, 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  41 

in  the  mysterious  country  towards  which  the  human  cara- 
van is  wending.  "We  pray  likewise  for  those  of  our 
ancestors  who  fell  on  the  field  of  battle."  A  little  bell 
tinkles;  the  organ  swells.     Absolve,  Domine! 

The  graveyard  is  on  the  back  of  the  first  hill,  after 
which  come  other  hills  that  link  themselves  to  the  sum- 
mits. Again  hands  lay  hold  of  the  ropes,  and  the  bells 
speak.  Behind  the  crucifix  and  the  banners,  the  proces- 
sion follows  the  windings  of  the  ascent.  All  carry 
sheaves  of  chrysanthemums,  which  sway  to  the  rhythm 
of  the  march.     Heilige  Maria,  bete  fiir  uns. 

Now  they  are  standing  by  their  graves,  which  the  priest 
blesses  with  a  sweeping  gesture.  And  when  the  bells  of 
Friedensbach  are  silent  for  a  minute,  one  hears  all  those 
of  the  valley,  big  ones  booming,  little  ones  which  have  a 
note  of  hope,  now  an  isolated  sound,  now  voices  mingled 
by  the  breeze.  .  .  .  Here  it  is  that  the  past  awakens. 
Ci-git  Jean  Burger,  says  a  stone.  Ci-git  Pierre  Schnee- 
herg,  says  another.  The  language  of  the  dead  is,  of 
course,  French.  This  Ci-git  (Here  lies)  is  a  certificate 
of  fidelity  which  the  people  sign  for  themselves.  One 
does  not  lie  to  the  dead. 

The  priest  lingered  a  while  before  the  stone  on  which 
are  the  words:  Ci-git  Louis  Schmid,  mort  a  89  ans, 
1788-1886.  Schmid  lived  through  the  Revolution,  served 
under  Napoleon  the  Great,  witnessed  the  reigns  of  Louis 
XVIIL,  Charles  X.,  the  Second  Republic,  Napoleon  III., 
the  great  catastrophe.  He  waited  sixteen  years  longer, 
after  which  he  died,  full  of  years.     They  buried  him  here, 


42  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

whereas  the  masters  of  the  present  carry  away  their  dead 
to  the  other  side  of  the  Rhine,  a  sufficient  evidence  that 
they  do  not  belong  here.  Now  it  is  the  dead  who  speak 
to  the  hearts  of  the  people  from  the  depths  of  their 
silence.  Their  dust  has  mingled  with  the  dust  of  the  soil, 
but  their  works  live:  the  churches  they  built,  the  houses 
they  shut  up  every  night,  the  letters  in  the  box  up  in  the 
attic,  and  all  the  things  that  are  neither  seen  nor  heard, 
all  that  takes  flight  and  floats  and  bathes  the  soul  as  the 
atmosphere  bathes  the  body.    The  voice  of  the  dead ! 

This  morning,  when  the  factory  hooter  was  sounding 
—  the  night  was  passing  away  reluctantly,  the  lamp  was 
still  shedding  a  bright  circle  of  light  on  kitchen -tables  — 
workmen,  standing  on  their  doorsteps,  burst  into  loud 
laughter,  terminating  in  resolute  GoUverdammi.  There 
was  a  hum  of  talk.  Neighbours  called  to  each  other  from 
street  and  gable-windows.  Arms  were  extended.  Laugh- 
ter broke  out  anew.     Some  one  said: 

"  On  the  fir-tree,  near  the  bridge." 

Boys,  half  dressed,  were  already  galloping  across  the 
fields.  Old  men  in  night-shirts,  old  women  with  their 
scanty  locks  hanging  on  their  shoulders,  shaded  their 
eyes  with  their  hands. 

"  Do  you  see  it?  " 

"Yes  indeed;  there  it  is!  " 

It  was  the  tenth  year  of  the  event.  And  the  culprit  had 
never  been  discovered.  A  few  days  after  the  departure 
of  the  conscripts,  a  red,  white,  and  blue  flag  was  discov- 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  43 

ered  at  dawn  floating  over  the  landscape.  On  the  school- 
house  lightning  conductor,  on  the  balcony  of  the  police- 
station,  last  year  on  the  ruined  tower,  this  year  on  the 
giant  fir-tree  beyond  the  river.  Blue,  white,  red:  there  it 
is  beyond  doubt!  How  it  flaps  in  the  wind!  There  is 
an  irony  in  its  flutterings,  in  its  sudden  drooping,  as  if 
it  were  giving  up  the  struggle,  followed  by  a  leap  which 
shakes  it  out  again,  with  little  tosses  and  quirks  of  merri- 
ment. Is  it  the  effect  of  these  three  gay  colours,  an  asso- 
ciation of  ideas?  Every  one  feels  lighter  of  foot, 
nimbler  of  tongue,  more  alert  of  mind. 

All  along  the  road,  the  workmen  keep  turning  to  look 
at  it.  The  boys  are  swarming  round  the  tree,  jumping 
and  laughing;  then  silence  falls  on  them,  for  an  official 
delegation  approaches:  a  Custom-house  officer,  two 
policemen,  the  ranger,  who  has  been  dragged  out  of  bed, 
yawning.     The  annual  ceremony  begins. 

.  .  .  The  officials  estimate  the  height  of  the  tree.  The 
ranger  looks  at  the  first  policeman,  who  looks  at  the 
Custom-house  officer.  They  compare  their  respective 
bulks.  .  .  .  Perhaps  one  of  the  boys?  .  .  .  The  whole 
band  take  to  their  heels,  even  Ruprecht,  the  son  of  the 
bailiff,  a  thorough-bred  Schwob;  even  Adolf  Schorrer, 
whose  father  is  the  president  of  the  Kriegerverein.  The 
scandal  has  lasted  too  long.  The  policeman  Taubens- 
peck  unbuckles  his  sword,  and  lays  his  pistol  and  his 
helmet  on  the  grass.  He  climbs  from  branch  to  branch 
—  how  they  bend! — cautiously,  feeling  with  his  foot, 
breathing  hard,  and  gazing  skywards.     His  green  uniform 


44  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

shows  light  against  the  dark  green  of  the  tree.  A  branch, 
now  another.  How  high  it  is!  But  a  sense  of  duty  over- 
comes all  difficulties.  Taubenspeck  is  at  the  top  of  the 
tree  now.  His  neck  shines;  his  square  head  stands  out 
against  the  pale  sky;  he  stretches  out  his  hand.  The 
flag  shivers,  hesitates,  then  drops  into  space.  When 
a  flag  is  bent  on  mischief,  it  plays  all  sorts  of  tricks  be- 
fore it  comes  to  the  ground.  The  red,  white,  and  blue  is 
so  volatile!  It  soars  in  the  air,  drops,  rises  again,  curves, 
loops  the  loop,  recovers  itself,  plays  the  butterfly,  frolics, 
and  at  last  flutters  to  earth  with  the  grace  of  a  dead  leaf. 
Armed  authority  hastens  forward,  seizes  the  delinquent, 
folds  and  refolds  it  so  thoroughly  that  at  last  it  is  merely 
a  red  package  that  can  be  tucked  under  a  tunic.  .  .  . 
Lieb'  Vaterland,  magst  ruhig  sein! 

But  the  incident  will  not  be  forgotten  for  a  whole  year. 
Enquiry  after  enquiry  will  be  set  on  foot.  Twenty  marks 
will  be  off'ered  to  an  informer.  Action  after  action  will 
be  brought  to  tame  the  seditious  population.  There 
are  so  many  carts  without  lamps,  so  many  bicyclists  who 
exceed  the  speed-limit,  so  many  innkeepers  who  close 
five  minutes  too  late. 

Herr  Kummel  deplores  "this  stupid  business."  It 
even  gave  him  a  pretext  for  talking  French  throughout 
Reymond's  German  conversation  lesson  on  the  Thursday 
evening.     He  said: 

"  It  is  quite  unimportant.  ...  A  boyish  prank.  But 
it  offends  the  authorities,  it  casts  a  slur  on  a  population 
of  purely  German  stock.     It  excites  the  hotheads,   of 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  45 

which  there  are  always  a  few.  So  it  is  foolish,  and 
cowardly  too,  for  the  culprit  will  not  come  forward. 
The  authorities  are  annoyed;  they  refuse  a  grant,  decline 
to  raise  salaries,  and  the  honest,  loyal,  faithful  inhabi- 
tants have  to  pay  the  piper.  Cowardly  and  foolish.  The 
work  of  Wackes.  The  True  Alsatians  deplore  it  heart- 
ily." 

Herr  Kummel  fumed  indignantly. 

One  evening  when  Reymond  had  stayed  to  dinner  with 
the  Bohlers,  there  was  some  music  after  the  meal.  Jean 
played  the  violoncello,  Charles  Weiss  the  violin,  Madame 
Bohler  accompanied  them  at  the  piano.  It  was  a  pretty 
sight.  The  fair-haired  mother,  her  face  bathed  in  the 
rosy  light  of  the  shaded  lamp;  Jean,  with  knitted  brows 
and  a  wrinkle  in  his  forehead,  too  sentimental,  perhaps, 
for  Mozart;  Charles,  his  hair  falling  over  his  eyes,  ab- 
sorbed in  the  limpid,  delicate  design  of  the  work.  Mon- 
sieur Bohler  listened,  smoking  his  pipe,  his  hands 
clasped  behind  his  head,  after  the  manner  of  a  man  of 
action  giving  himself  up  to  a  moment  of  emotion.  After 
the  concluding  note  of  a  trio  of  Schubert's,  he  spoke 
from  his  heart: 

"  Beautiful !  Oh,  those  Germans,  what  musicians  they 
are!  But  why  to  the  devil  didn't  they  stay  on  the  other 
side  of  the  Rhine?  " 

The  conversation  turned  naturally  to  Alsace.  Rey- 
mond described  the  incident  of  the  flag.  * 

"  How  characteristic  of  our  masters !  "  said  Monsieur 


46  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

Bohler.  "The  thing  is  unimportant  in  itself,  but  so 
significant!  There  is  a  right  way  of  dealing  with  such  an 
incident:  the  flag  might  have  been  left  to  its  fate,  with  an 
ironical  salutation,  till  the  wind  carried  it  off  to  the  devil. 
Instead  of  which,  the  police  are  called  out,  a  foolish  joke 
is  treated  as  a  conspiracy,  long  speeches  are  made,  school 
boys  are  questioned,  bribes  are  offered  to  informers, 
officials  telephone  to  the  Kreisdirektor,  who  telephones  to 
Strasburg.  .  .  .  We  pay  dearly  for  this  flag.  Really,  it 
is  absurd  of  them  to  call  us  long-lost  brothers;  our  minds 
are  of  different  families.  Fisticuffs  and  pin-pricks  are 
our  portion  throughout  the  year.  After  all,  it  is  irritat- 
ing to  be  a  servant  in  one's  own  house,  a  stranger  in 
one's  own  country,  to  be  harassed  in  our  memories,  lec- 
tured by  pedants." 

"Kummel  said  some  priceless  things  to  me  on  the 
subject." 

Reymond  at  once  regretted  having  spoken  this  name. 

"Kummel?  .  .  .  That  Pomeranian  who  came  among 
us  with  all  his  possessions  in  a  handkerchief,  and  now 
poisons  the  minds  of  our  children !  He  poses  as  an  Alsa- 
tian to  those  who  don't  know  him,  on  the  ground  that 
he  has  been  sucking  our  blood  for  twenty-eight  years. 
Whereupon  —  and  there  are  thousands  and  thousands 
like  him  —  they  assert  that  we  have  become  reconciled 
to  the  annexation.  Do  the  French  know  this?  ...  He 
is  an  out-and-out  Pomeranian,  that  Kummel,  a  licenced 
informer,  a  crafty  pedagogue,  the  recognized  leader  of  the 
clique.  ...  He  has  given  me  a  lot  of  trouble  already. 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  47 

If  ever  the  school  inspector  comes  down  upon  you,  we 
shall  know  whom  we  have  to  thank.  By  the  way,  how 
long  have  you  known  this  man  Kummel?  " 

A  formidable  question.  Reymond  confessed,  plead- 
ing extenuating  circumstances.  A  certain  coldness  en- 
sued. 

"  It  is  a  pity;  you  should  have  consulted  me." 

"  I  can  easily  stop  the  lessons." 

"Not  on  any  account.  He  would  have  his  revenge. 
You  have  begun,  so  you  must  go  on.  I  know  my  man. 
Of  course,  you  must  never  speak  of  your  pupils  or  of  us 
to  him.  Good  heavens !  put  yourself  in  our  place.  What 
would  you  say  if,  on  the  plea  that  before  the  time  of 
William  Tell  you  belonged  to  some  one  or  the  other, 
they  annexed  a  piece  of  your  beautiful  Switzerland?  If 
the  usurper  ordered  your  compatriots,  ground  under  his 
heel:  Think  this,  don't  say  that,  shout  Hoch!  hang  out 
flags;  if  they  were  suspected,  treated  as  inferiors,  perse- 
cuted as  criminals  for  remaining  faithful  to  their  country, 
would  you  not  applaud  them  for  behaving  as  we  do?  " 

"  Papa,  Alsace  will  be  taken  back,"  said  Rene. 

"When?  ...  Ah!  let  us  talk  of  something  else,  and 
live  our  little  life." 

Wrapped  in  a  cloud  of  smoke,  Monsieur  Bohler  sat 
silent  for  the  rest  of  the  evening. 

Let  us  live  our  little  life!     Reymond  tried  his  best  to 
do  so.     Indeed,  there  was  nothing  else  to  be  done. 
Twice  a  day  the  tutor  went  to  the  factory.    The  road 


48  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

ran  between  hedges,  crossed  the  railway  and  then  skirted 
the  mountain.  To  the  right  lay  the  whole  breadth  of  the 
valley  —  the  valley  with  its  meadows,  its  orchards,  its 
gardens,  its  river  fringed  with  alders;  beyond,  the  boldly 
undulating  hills,  roads  climbing  courageously  upward, 
copses,  bare  spaces  where  the  goats,  in  spite  of  the  ad- 
vance of  winter,  still  find  something  to  crop.  From  a 
distance  these  goats  look  like  white  stones  laid  upon  the 
yellowing  pastures.  Near  the  bridge  there  are  nearly 
always  basket-makers,  crouching  round  a  cart  covered 
with  a  tarpaulin.  Children  with  greasy  locks,  often 
quite  naked,  keep  watch  over  a  knock-kneed  horse  which 
snuffs  the  tufts  of  faded  grass,  its  lips  drawn  back  over 
its  blackened  teeth.  Crossing  the  river,  Reymond  pushes 
open  the  iron  gate.  The  porter  greets  him  from  the 
back  of  his  lodge. 

In  the  schoolroom  he  finds  Jean  and  Rene.  They  rise 
respectful:  "Good-morning,  Monsieur."  They  read, 
translate,  recite  a  fable,  work  out  problems,  find  coun- 
tries and  cities  upon  the  map.  How  the  hours  fly!  It 
is  the  drone  of  the  machine  which  helps  you,  carries  you 
along. 

Reymond  is  on  the  road  again.  The  gipsies  are  still 
there,  the  naked  children,  the  horse,  the  blear-eyed  dog. 
He  nearly  always  has  to  wait  a  few  minutes  at  the  level 
crossing,  until  the  little  train  comes  clattering  along. 
Heads  look  out  at  him  from  the  carriage  windows.  In 
his  workroom,  the  stove  burns  cosily.  Seven  o'clock. 
Good-evening,    gentlemen.     Mahlzeit.     Always   the   two 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  49 

tables,  the  usual  rites,  the  same  distance.  Coquart  tells 
stories.  Reymond  lauds  the  Swiss  army.  The  Alsatians 
pass  from  French  to  patois,  from  patois  to  French.  They 
say  what  they  wish  to  say,  and  nothing  more.  Cigars 
are  lighted,  there  is  a  little  more  conversation.  Then 
his  own  warm  room,  the  newspaper.  Looks.  And  then 
sometimes  the  moonbeams  glance  off  the  roofs,  some- 
times the  rain  patters.  Ten  o'clock,  curfew!  Jacob 
grumbles  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  old  Schmoler 
chants  his  prayer,  Jacobine  coughs;  their  daughters, 
after  double-locking  the  door  below,  mount  the  creaking 
stairs.  Bedtime.  The  little  train  passes  again,  and  whis- 
tles, no  one  knows  why.     Reymond  falls  asleep. 

This  monotonous  life  is  a  pleasant  one.  It  rocks  and 
soothes  the  soul.  Sunday  is  an  oasis  in  the  greyness  of 
the  week.  The  bells  ring;  people  coming  back  from 
Mass  show  their  fine  clothes  —  a  green  tie,  a  hat  wreathed 
with  jonquils;  they  gossip  interminably  on  their  door- 
steps, their  gilt-edged  prayer-books  in  their  hands.  In 
the  afternoon  the  geese,  alarmed  by  the  hooters  of  motor- 
cars, make  off  in  Indian  file  down  a  side-street,  moving 
with  great  dignity,  their  beaks  uplifted.  The  inhabi- 
tants take  walks,  go  to  see  their  friends  in  neighbouring 
villages.  The  policeman  Taubenspeck  also  takes  a  walk. 
He  smokes  a  cigar  and  wears  white  gloves.  By  his  side 
walks  his  wife,  and  they  are  followed  by  their  children, 
whose  names  Hansi  has  told  us:  Irmentrude,  Hildegarde, 
Elsa,  Hulda,  Wilhelm,  Siegfried,  Karlchen  and  Hanschen 
.  .  .  and  no  doubt  this  is  not  the  last  of  the  clan.  .  .  . 


50  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

The  belfry  marks  the  hours.  The  geese  return  by  the 
side-street,  and  youths  pass,  arm-in-arm  with  their  be- 
trothed. Night.  The  lamps  are  lighted.  Nothing  is  to 
be  heard  now  but  the  shoemaker  Herzog's  concertina, 
and  the  songs  of  the  drinkers  sitting  in  the  Golden  Cask: 
Quelle  est  belle,  la  terre  d^ Alsace! 

As  weeks  follow  weeks,  the  stranger  begins  to  under- 
stand a  country.  Slowly,  its  soul  stands  revealed.  It 
is  in  what  one  sees,  in  what  one  divines.  It  is  in  the 
patois,  in  the  forest  depths,  in  the  gestures,  in  the  home- 
sick yearning  of  the  songs,  in  the  All  Saints  procession, 
in  the  memories  unspoken,  in  the  sentiments  concealed. 
What  can  force  do  against  feeling? 

Play  your  concertina,  shoemaker  Herzog;  drinkers  at 
the  Golden  Cask,  sing:  Qu^elle  est  belle  la  terre  d' Alsace! 
And  thou,  ringer,  spit  on  thy  palms  at  the  close  of  this 
Sabbath  day,  and  sound  the  curfew. 


IV 


A  JANUARY  night,  and  snowfall.  He  who  has  never 
lived  in  Alsace,  in  a  village  of  one  of  the  Vosges 
valleys,  cannot  imagine  the  charm  of  looking  out  on  wak- 
ing into  a  snow-clad  world.  On  all  the  slanting  roofs,  on 
the  ridges  of  the  chimneys,  even  on  the  weathercock,  the 
mantle  of  winter  has  been  spread.  It  lies  like  a  thickly 
padded  roll  along  the  tops  of  fences,  it  crowns  the  pot- 
bellied water-god  of  the  fountain,  the  stork's  empty  nest, 
the  Christ  on  the  churchyard  cross.  The  heights,  the 
forests,  all  the  hills  which  die  away  into  the  plain,  all 
the  sinuous  valleys,  have  donned  a  brid&l  gown  shot 
with  pink,  and  with  blue,  a  deep  blue,  almost  black,  the 
glory  of  the  mountain. 

Under  the  snow,  the  mountain  is  terrible  in  its  icy 
solitude.  All  is  white,  down  to  the  lowest  depths  of  the 
abyss.  The  Jura  shivers,  an  austere  wall  stretching  from 
north  to  south,  bristling  with  the  dark  halberds  of  pine- 
trees  and  assailed  by  the  north  wind.  The  Vosges,  how- 
ever", remain  winsome  and  human,  with  their  clumps  of 
broom,  their  birches  and  beeches,  their  laburnums;  and 
here,  accordingly,  the  snow  is  more  playful  in  its  deal- 
ings, turning  a  fir-tree  into  a  shining  lance-head,  a  labur- 
num into  a  dome,  a  birch  into  a  Gothic  arch,  a  clump 
of  broom  into  a  hedgehog  powdered  with  hoar-frost. 

51 


52  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

Then  there  are  also  the  colours  of  the  close  ranks  of  tree- 
trunks,  the  sunlit  bark  of  pines,  the  greenish  bark  of  the 
laburnum,  the  whitish  bark  of  the  birches,  the  russet 
foliage  of  the  beeches;  and  all  around  them  the  bluish- 
white  of  the  snow,  over  which  steals  the  voice  of  bells,  for 
there  is  always  a  sound  of  bells  in  every  Alsatian  day. 

Little  boys,  their  red  caps  pulled  down  over  their  ears, 
climb  the  slope,  harnessed  to  a  sleigh  with  two  seats. 
How  the  red  caps  fly  along  the  smooth  track!  Their 
shouts  ring  out  on  the  crisp  air. 

On  a  certain  Sunday  afternoon  every  one  seemed  to  be 
taking  part  in  the  sport:  Fritz,  the  shoemaker's  appren- 
tice, who  guided  his  sleigh  lying  flat  on  his  stomach,  and 
playing  his  mouth-organ ;  and  Bader,  and  Schramm,  and 
Spinner,  and 'Becker,  and  Klipfel,  and  a  great  many 
others,  lads  and  their  lasses,  the  buxom,  apple-cheeked 
girls,  who  settle  down  upon  the  knees  that  are  offered 
them  without  much  coyness.  But  the  maiden  who  at- 
tracted most  attention  was  Suzanne  Weiss,  the  sister  of 
one  of  Reymond's  pupils,  a  joyous,  laughing  apparition, 
whose  fair  complexion  against  the  whiteness  of  the  snow 
made  her  look  like  a  wild-rose  blooming  out  of  season. 

.  .  ,  Mademoiselle  Suzanne!  Voices  took  on  caress- 
ing tones  when  they  spoke  of  her.  Coquart  turned  to 
look  after  her  when  he  met  her.  Reymond  thought  the 
valley  enchanting  after  he  had  greeted  her.  Even  Kraut, 
the  sexagenarian  widowed  bureaucrat,  looked  at  her  like 
a  dog  seated  before  a  closed  door.  Even  Justice  Doring 
found  his  way  regularly  past  the  Weisses'  windows,  but- 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  53 

toned  up  in  an  interminable  frock-coat,  a  Christmas  rose 
in  his  button-hole,  his  moustache  twisted  up  to  his  nos- 
trils, a  silver-headed  cane  in  his  hand. 

Jean  and  Rene,  Andre  Berger,  Emile  Zumbach,  Charles 
Weiss,  their  sisters  and  cousins,  enjoyed  the  sport  whole- 
heartedly. All  these  people,  amidst  a  chorus  of  "  Herr 
Je's  "  and  "  Jesus  Maria's,"  by  which  the  girls  sitting  on 
the  knees  of  the  boys  commended  their  souls  to  God,  flew 
down  the  incline  to  the  bridge,  where  stood  those  who 
would  not  trust  their  dignity  to  the  whims  of  a  sleigh;  the 
muffled-up  manmias,  the  rheumatic  papas,  the  old  men 
smoking  their  pipes  silently,  the  leading  manufacturers, 
and  also  Kraut,  Kummel,  and  Justice  Doring,  forming 
a  solemn  group. 

The  only  one  of  the  notables  who  was  taking  part  in 
the  sport  was  Monsieur  Weiss,  and  he  was  lugeing  as  en- 
thusiastically as  any  woodman.  This  man  never  did 
anything  like  other  people.  His  legs  cased  in  blue  gait- 
ers, his  fur  cap  pulled  over  his  face  till  all  that  was  to 
be  seen  of  it  was  a  straw-coloured  beard,  his  broad  shoul- 
ders and  flowing  artist's  cravat  rising  above  the  crowd, 
he  radiated  gaiety. 

This  self-made  Alsatian  felt  himself  surrounded  by 
respectful  affection.  Papa  Weiss  was  not  proud,  and  he 
was  as  good  as  a  slice  of  Kougelhopf.  How  many  who 
were  behindhand  with  their  rents  he  had  helped!  How 
many  poor  devils  he  had  snatched  from  the  claws  of 
money-lenders!  By  his  virtuous  example  and  his  out- 
spoken language,  this  man  upheld  national  traditions. 


54  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

A  born  leader.  All  that  was  essentially  local,  genuinely 
Alsatian  was  warmly  supported  by  Victor  Weiss.  To  a 
highly  placed  personage  who  once,  during  a  discussion, 
reminded  him  that  he  was  a  German  citizen,  he  replied: 
"Pardon  me.  I  am  an  Alsatian  citizen  and  a  German 
subject.  They  are  not  quite  the  same  thing."  This 
speech  was  much  quoted  in  Friedensbach. 

Seated  on  his  luge,  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  Weiss  swept 
along,  towed  by  another  sleigh  in  which  his  daughter  and 
his  two  sons  had  installed  themselves,  with  Reymond 
as  pilot.  Intoxicated  by  the  rapid  motion,  they  felt  them- 
selves the  lords  of  the  dazzling  landscape.  But  disaster 
was  before  them.  As  Kraut,  Kummel,  and  Doring  were 
crossing  the  frozen  track,  the  widower,  whose  heels 
slipped  under  him,  caught  at  the  arms  of  his  companions. 
The  next  moment  the  sleigh  scattered  the  distressful 
group!  A  permutation  of  human  values!  For  a  mo- 
ment the  pedagogue  stood  on  his  head,  his  spine  con- 
tracted with  anguish,  his  heels  turned  up  to  the  stars. 
Justice  Doring  was  spinning  round  on  his  posterior  like 
a  top ;  as  to  Kraut,  he  lay  with  his  beard  flat  on  the  snow, 
his  scanty  locks  bristling,  his  ten  fingers  clutching  the  ice, 
rousing  the  echoes  with  his  cries  of  Was!  (What!) 

A  laugh  burst  from  the  crowd.  Kraut  got  up,  rubbed 
his  back  ruefully,  and  repeated  his  Was!  Kummel,  who 
had  also  risen,  shook  his  head  mournfully.  The  offensive 
fell  to  the  share  of  Justice  Doring,  whose  forehead, 
streaked  with  purple  veins,  dilated,  short-sighted  eyes, 
and  the  scars  which  had  suddenly  appeared  on  the  deadly 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  55 

whiteness  of  his  face,  revealed  an  unusual  degree  of  fury. 

"Keep  calm,  and  say  very  little,"  whispered  Weiss  to 
Reymond.     "  If  things  become  unpleasant,  count  on  me." 

The  Justice  approached  obliquely.  The  boors  had 
dared  to  laugh.  The  dignity  of  the  magistracy  must  be 
vindicated.  Nevertheless,  in  presence  of  Mademoiselle 
Weiss,  who  was  looking  at  him  with  a  certain  degree  of 
fear,  Doring's  fury  was  transformed  into  gallantry. 
Clicking  his  heels  together,  he  bowed.  Then,  in  excellent 
French,  but  with  a  slight  accent,  he  said: 

"  I  hope  you,  at  any  rate,  were  not  hurt.  Mademoi- 
selle? " 

"And  you.  Monsieur?  "  replied  the  young  girl,  with  a 
show  of  solicitude. 

"  Oh !  nothing  to  speak  of.  If  you  are  not  hurt,  then 
all  is  well." 

"  Yes,  that's  the  main  thing,"  added  Kraut. 

The  Justice  turned  to  Reymond.  He  eyed  him  as  one 
eyes  a  man  to  decide  whether  he  is  satis  factions  fdhig. 
Then,  in  his  official  voice: 

"  One  question,  Monsieur.  Was  this  accident  inten- 
tional on  your  part?  " 

Reymond  looked  up. 

"Intentional?  You  and  those  two  gentlemen  were  in 
the  very  middle  of  the  track!  I  think  that  question 
would  come  better  from  me  to  you.  I  may  point  out  to 
you  that  we  very  nearly  crashed  into  that  tree." 

Playing  a  losing  game  handsomely,  the  Judge  bowed 
again.     Then,  in  measured  tones: 


56  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

"  In  that  case,  it  is  my  business  to  apologize.  Had 
the  reverse  been  the  case,  the  consequences  might  have 
been  serious.  As  it  is,  we  must  look  upon  the  accident 
as  the  result  of  a  vexatious  concatenation  of  circum- 
stances. This  was  what  I  wanted  to  prove.  Mademoi- 
selle, gentlemen,  I  have  the  honour  ,  .  ." 

For  the  third  time  the  heels  clicked  together.  For  the 
third  time  the  magistrate  bowed.  Drawn  up  side  by  side 
at  the  edge  of  the  road,  their  feet  turned  in.  Kraut  and 
Kummel  did  their  best  to  imitate  this  hieratic  salutation. 
Walking  slowly  and  holding  themselves  very  erect,  the 
three  men  went  off. 

When  they  had  disappeared,  Weiss  uttered  a  mighty 
laugh,  holding  out  both  hands  to  Reymond. 

"  Monsieur,  you  must  sup  with  us.  No  thanks !  I 
owe  you  one  of  the  greatest  pleasures  of  my  life,  perhaps 
the  greatest.  That  Kraut  clasping  an  icicle  to  his  heart, 
that  Kummel  standing  on  his  head,  that  Doring  trans- 
formed into  a  dancing  dervish.  It  was  really  delight- 
ful! " 

"Priceless,  priceless!"  cried  the  pupils  with  great 
enthusiasm. 

A  woodman  with  a  matted  beard  like  lichen  detached 
himself  from  the  crowd,  and  held  out  his  hand  to  Rey- 
mond, explaining  something  in  patois, 

"  What  does  he  say?  " 

"He  is  thanking  you.  Last  Friday  the  Justice  fined 
him  fifty  marks  as  a  result  of  an  accusation  by  the  ranger. 
So  he  is  thanking  you.     He  calls  the  accident  his  revenge. 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  57 

So  now  let  us  go  home.     Our  day  has  not  been  wasted." 

On  the  way,  Weiss  teased  his  daughter. 

"We  have  to  thank  you  for  this  honeyed  solution. 
Doring  positively  cooed." 

Suzanne  laughed.  "  Poor  man !  He  was  really  quite 
touching." 

"  That's  right,  pity  him.  We  know  what  pity  is  akin 
to." 

"  Don't  be  afraid.  I  think  I  should  prefer  Kraut.  He 
yearns  so  for  affection." 

What  a  feast!  And  what  merriment!  Every  one 
laughed  on  the  slightest  pretext  —  Monsieur  Weiss  in 
great  gusts,  Madame  Weiss  in  a  cascade,  Suzanne  in 
ripples,  Charles  in  gurgles,  Mariette  after  the  manner  of 
little  girls  of  six,  her  nose  buried  in  her  table-napkin. 
Those  Weisses!  They  expanded  without  mystery,  with- 
out formula  or  stock  phrases,  or  precautions,  just  as 
Nature  prompted  them.  Scarcely  had  a  peal  of  laughter 
subsided  when  Weiss  said: 

"  Did  you  notice  how  tall  Kummel  looked,  standing 
on  his  head?  .  .  .  And  his  pink  socks!  ...  I  should 
never  have  suspected  him  of  being  such  a  dandy!  " 

Meanwhile  every  one  did  justice  to  the  meal. 

"  Come,  Monsieur  Reymond,  you  are  not  taking  any- 
thing," said  Madame  Weiss,  with  her  maternal  smile. 

"  No  more,  thank  you." 

It  was  too  late.  The  plate  was  full.  He  had  to  begin 
again.  The  pleasant  warmth,  the  dresser  loaded  with 
pewter-plates,  crudely  coloured  bowls,  tureens  of  /oie- 


58  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

gras,  long-necked  bottles,  the  savoury  steam  that  rose  to 
the  coffered  ceiling,  all  invited  festivity.  And  Madame 
Weiss  repeated  smilingly: 

"  You  are  not  helping  yourself." 

"  Come  now,  mamma,"  said  Suzanne  at  last,  a  little 
bit  ashamed. 

They  passed  into  the  drawing-room,  a  characteristically 
Weissian  apartment,  original  to  the  verge  of  comicality; 
here  stood  a  spinning-wheel,  there  a  stuffed  stork  beside 
a  sheaf  of  bulrushes;  there  were  great  arm-chairs,  ex- 
quisite engravings,  and  many  other  pleasant  things, 
making  up  a  very  harmonious  whole  by  reason  of  a  kind 
of  good-natured  cosiness,  a  somewhat  crude  fancy.  As 
soon  as  they  entered  the  room,  the  father  caught  his  little 
girl  by  the  hands,  and  began  to  dance  an  improvised 
bourree,  singing: 

"  Cigogn',  cigogn'  t'as  de  la  chance, 
Tous  les  ans  tu  passes  en  France, 
Cigogn',  cigogn',  rapport'  nous 
Dans  ton  bee  un  p'tit  pioupiou.  .  .  ." 

[Stork,  stork,  how  lucky  you  are.  You  go  to  France  every  year. 
Stork,  stork,  bring  us  back  a  little  French  soldier  in  your  beak.l 

Throwing  her  head  back,  the  child  laughed  delightedly. 
After  this  she  asked  for  a  sad  story. 
"  Which  one?     The  Black  Uhlan?  " 
"Oh,  yes!" 
"  Well,  now  we  must  sit  very  still." 

"Quand  la  nuit  descend 
Fermons  les  persiennes, 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  59 

Car  le  vieux  uhlan 

Fait  souvent  des  siennes." 

[When  night  falls,  let  us  close  the  shutters,  for  the  old  Uhlan  will 
be  playing  his  tricks.] 

"Shall  I  go  on?" 

"  Oh,  yes!  "  cried  the  child,  with  a  shudder. 

"Les  petits  gourmands 
Crac!  dans  sa  besace, 
Les  petits  enfants 
Les  enfants  d' Alsace." 

[He  seizes  the  little  gluttons,  and  stuffs  them  into  his  pouch,  the 
little  children,  the  children  of  Alsace.] 

"  Is  that  enough?  " 

Marianne  was  holding  her  breath,  awestruck. 

"  More?  " 

"  Bismarck,  chez  le  diable, 

II  n'a  plus  de  dents, 

Trouve  delectable  .  .  ." 

[Bismarck  is  with  the  devU.    He  has  no  teeth  left,  so  he  appre- 
ciates .  .  .] 

The  child  began  to  cry,  throwing  herself  into  her 
father's  arms. 

"  No,  not  about  Bismarck!  .  .  .  not  about  Bismarck!  " 

"  Little  goose !  Look  at  your  father.  Do  you  think 
he  is  afraid  of  Bismarck?  .  .  .  Suzanne,  play  us  some- 
thing! Something  lively.  And  you.  Monsieur  Rey- 
mond,  have  a  glass  of  kirsch?  It's  good  stuff,  from  my 
own  orchard." 

While  his  daughter  was  playing  a  victorious  march, 
more  noisy  than  melodious,  Weiss  drew  Reymond  into  a 
window  recess,  and  began: 


60  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

"Con^,ss  that  you  think  me  a  little  cracked.  .  .  . 
Talking  of  Bismarck  to  a  child  of  six!  But  one  cannot 
begin  too  early  to  talk  to  them.  .  .  .  Everything  is  law- 
ful for  those  who  have  been  robbed  of  their  country. 
And  what  a  country!  ...  No  one  will  ever  know  the 
kind  of  lives  we  lead  here.  The  Alsatian  has  a  broad 
chest.  He  needs  to  breathe  deeply,  to  express  his  feel- 
ings, to  dance  when  his  heart  is  merry  —  in  short,  to  be 
himself.  Now,  for  forty  years,  we  have  been  stifling. 
Espionage,  denunciations,  suspicions,  vexations,  annoy- 
ances, petty  regulations,  sneers,  fines,  imprisonment,  per- 
secutions, expulsions  —  this  is  the  portion  of  the  proud- 
est people  in  the  world.  When  a  man  has  to  be  keeping 
watch  over  hiipself  perpetually,  holding  his  tongue, 
clenching  his  fist  in  his  pocket,  living  bent  double,  so  to 
speak,  his  heart  on  an  anvil,  he  breaks  loose  in  the  bosom 
of  his  family! 

"As  a  Swiss,  Monsieur  Reymond,  you  ought,  indeed 
you  ought  to  understand  and  love  us.  People  say  some- 
times: liberty  is  but  a  word.  Only  those  who  have  lost 
it  know  what  it  is.  We  have  paid  dearly  for  our  state  of 
slavery.  That  photograph  over  the  piano,  that  handsome 
fellow,  was  my  eldest  son  Jacques.  He  died  in  garrison, 
at  the  age  of  twenty-one.  If  I  told  you  what  they  did  to 
him,  you  would  not  believe  me.  Well,  in  spite  of  this, 
they  will  have  our  two  others.  The  elder  boy  is  at  Stras- 
burg  University.  I  mean  them  to  stay  in  Alsace.  Our 
brave  people  must  have  leaders.  If  the  middle  classes 
abandon  them,  all  will  be  lost. 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  61 

"  I  know  that  Bohler  is  going  to  send  his  boys  to 
France.  I  do  not  blame  him.  We  want  some  of  our 
stock,  too,  beyond  the  Vosges,  to  tell  what  we  are  suffer 
ing,  to  blow  upon  the  embers.  .  .  .  My  poor  boy!  It  is 
hard  to  bear !  Oh !  you  mustn't  think  that  I  am  so  stupid 
as  to  hate  the  Germans  on  principle.  I  know  their  fine 
qualities.  They  are  industrious,  disciplined,  tenacious. 
If  force  is  the  last  word  in  life,  they  are  even  a  great 
people.  But  impartiality  is  a  forbidden  luxury  to  us 
Alsatians.  We  must  only  think  of  one  thing:  they  have 
taken  our  country,  they  trample  upon  it,  they  keep  it  by 
the  power  of  the  mailed  first.  Credulous,  like  all  those 
who  are  puffed  up  with  pride,  they  imagine  that  they  will 
bring  us  along  in  a  leash  from  fraternity  to  feudality. 
If  we  were  to  agree  to  this,  we  should  be  cowards,  the 
most  despicable  of  all  cowards.  We  should  admit  tacitly 
that  a  nation  is  a  flock  which  the  master  leads  whither 
he  will  by  means  of  the  whip. 

"Ah!  they  build  us  railway-stations,  post  offices,  and 
schools,  and  they  cry  out  at  our  ingratitude  because  they 
cannot  buy  our  souls!  And  they  frown,  and  brandish 
the  whip!  A  whip  for  the  Alsatians!  For  us,  the  sons 
of  the  free  towns,  of  the  land  which  made  the  Revolu- 
tion; for  us,  who  lived  through  the  Napoleonic  epic, 
sword  in  hand;  for  us  who  fought  at  Sebastopol,  at  Sol- 
ferino.  .  .  .  The  whip  for  us!  " 

Weiss's  voice  broke.  He  paused.  Then  he  repeated 
once  more :     "  The  whip !  " 

An  attempt,  however  involuntary,  to  upset  the  equi- 


62  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

librium  of  Imperial  functionaries  may  not  be  made  with 
impunity. 

Rene  Bohler's  voice,  muted  by  the  snorting  of  machin- 
ery, was  extolling  the  beauty  of  Calypso,  when  the  old 
servant  knocked  at  the  door  and  pronounced  words  that 
struck  a  chill  to  the  hearts  of  master  and  pupils: 

"  The  Inspector  of  Schools." 

He  entered  the  room  forthwith.  What  struck  them 
first  was  a  head  like  a  pensive  vulture's,  an  enormously 
long  body,  and  very  large  feet.  Reymond,  Jean,  and 
Rene  rose  and  bowed  respectfully.  The  tutor  then  in- 
troduced himself  and  his  pupils  in  halting  German. 

"Are  you  also  their  German  teacher?"  asked  the 
Inspector  in  French.  And  he  wrinkled  his  nose,  which 
gave  his  spectacles  a  singular  up-and-down  movement  and 
made  his  cheeks,  bristling  with  short,  stiff  hairs,  quiver. 

"  No,  Monsieur." 

"  Then,  who  teaches  them  German,  may  I  ask?  " 

"A  lady  .  .  ." 

"Ah!  ...  A  lady!  A  tutor  for  French,  a  lady  for 
German.     And  what  is  the  name  of  this  lady?  " 

"  Mademoiselle  Wahler." 

"  Where  does  she  live?  " 

"AtMulhouse." 

"Ah!  I  know  that  this  lady  also  gives  French  les- 
sons in  that  centre  of  learning,  Mulhouse.  The  dual  cul- 
ture! the  great  Alsatian  idea!  We  graduates  of  German 
Universities  cannot  aspire  to  knowledge  which  exhausts 
the  possibilities  of  our  German  culture,  but  Mademoiselle 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  63 

Wahler,  it  seems,  assimilates  the  two  cultures.  ...  I 
congratulate  this  lady  on  her  brilliant  capabilities." 

Delighted  at  having  winged  so  many  shafts  of  irony, 
the  Inspector  ceased  to  wrinkle  his  nose,  a  smile  flashed 
from  his  green  eyes,  and  he  sat  down.  After  a  rapid 
glance  at  surrounding  objects  —  oh!  oh!  a  map  of 
France,  a  statuette  of  Jeanne  d'Arc,  some  little  tricolour 
flags  on  the  walls,  souvenirs  of  a  Fourteenth  of  July  fes- 
tival —  he  came  back  to  his  mother-tongue  with  pon- 
derous geniality. 

"Today  we  will  be  content  with  a  short  examination 
in  history  and  geography.  These  are  touchstones.  I  see 
on  this  table  books  by  Monsieur  Seignobos,  by  Monsieur 
Gallouedec,  and  others  by  my  colleagues  of  the  Great 
Nation.  I  have  no  doubt  that  they  contain  much  ex- 
cellent and  accurate  information  touching  our  Alsace, 
for  instance,  and  our  Imperial  colonies.  .  .  .  Now,  you, 
my  young  friend,  shall  tell  me  something  about  Togo- 
land.  Speak,  young  man:  your  servant  is  all  atten- 
tion." 

Jean  opened  his  mouth  twice,  and  uttered  a  vague 
sound. 

"Very  good,"  said  the  Inspector,  with  a  loud  laugh. 
"  Quite  right  so  far.     What  next?  " 

"  Togoland  is  a  German  colony  ...  a  German  colony 
.  .  .  very  prosperous  ...  a  fine  colony  ...  in  Af- 
rica." 

"  I  have  suddenly  forgotten  my  French,  young  man. 
Kindly  translate  that  into  German." 


64  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

Jean  obeyed. 

"  Good.  I  almost  understood  what  you  said.  But  I 
should  like  a  few  additional  details.  The  date  of  con- 
quest, the  principal  towns,  rivers,  situation,  flora  and 
fauna,  the  annual  budget,  etc.,  etc. —  a  great  many 
things!  " 

"  There  are  no  large  towns.  .  .  .  The  rivers  dry  up  in 
the  summer.  .  .  .  The  productions  are  cocoa,  coffee, 
and  cotton.  .  .  .  There  are  giraffes  and  elephants." 

Jean  raised  his  eyebrows  to  indicate  that  he  had  ex- 
hausted the  sum  of  his  knowledge. 

The  Inspector  seemed  depressed. 

"When  a  person  lives  in  Germany,  my  young  friend, 
under  the  protection  of  German  might,  he  should  show 
some  gratitude.  It  is  his  duty  to  take  an  interest  in  the 
German  colonies,  in  the  elements  of  that  German  wealth 
by  which  you  benefit  so  enormously  in  Alsace.  Now,  I 
am  quite  sure  that  you  know  by  heart  the  names  of  the 
eighty-six  departments  of  France,  and  of  two  or  three 
hundred  towns,  the  most  important  of  which  is  inferior 
to  Friedensbach  in  intellectual  and  industrial  life.  .  .  . 
The  other  pupil  shall  answer  a  question  in  history.  Tell 
me  the  names  and  principal  achievements  of  the  first  six 
Electors  of  Brandenburg." 

Rene  threw  himself  boldly  into  the  breach. 

"Albert  the  Bear,  Otto  the  Fowler  .  .  .  Louis  the 
German.  ...  No;  that's  wrong  .  .  .  and  then  .  .  .  and 
then  .  .  ." 

"That  will  do." 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  65 

But  Rene  assumed  the  offensive. 

"Monsieur,  I  know  the  history  of  Germany.  .  .  . 
About  the  House  of  Saxony,  the  House  of  Franconia,  the 
quarrel  concerning  Investitures,  the  Golden  Bull  .  .  ." 

The  Inspector  closed  his  green  eyes,  shook  his  head, 
and  began  wrinkling  his  nose  again. 

"  My  young  friend,  when  I  ask  for  the  names  of  the 
first  six  Electors  of  Brandenburg,  I  don't  want  a  dis- 
course on  the  Golden  Bull.  German  pupils  form  the 
habit  of  answering  a  question  in  the  most  exact  and 
absolute  manner.  We  call  such  a  habit  the  discipline 
of  the  mind.  ...  I  will  wish  you  good  day.  Monsieur 
Reymond." 

The  three  looked  at  each  other  dumbfounded.  Dis- 
aster! Jean  seized  an  atlas,  Rene  looked  up  a  list  of 
sovereigns.     The  one  exclaimed: 

"What  a  shame  to  catch  me  with  Togoland,  when  I 
know  the  names  of  all  the  German  principalities!  " 

The  other  protested: 

"And  I  know  the  names  of  all  the  Hapsburgs  and 
Hohenstauffens  .  .  .  and  heaps  of  other  things.  And  I 
should  have  astonished  him  with  the  Golden  Bull." 

Reymond  said  nothing;  he  foresaw  trouble.  It  was 
with  an  effort  that  he  at  last  exhorted  them: 

"  Go  on  with  Calypso  again." 

When  Monsieur  Bohler  was  informed  of  the  adventure, 
he  opined,  like  a  man  of  sense,  that  there  was  nothing  to 
be  done,  and  that  they  must  await  further  developments. 

These  were  soon  forthcoming  in  the  shape  of  a  com- 


66  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

minatory  letter.  The  Inspector  deplored  the  ignorance  of 
the  culprits  "  in  geographical  and  historical  studies,  the 
touchstones  of  a  solid  practical  education.  Moreover, 
their  knowledge  of  our  national  tongue  leaves  much  to 
be  desired.  To  acquire  the  knowledge  indicated  in  the 
schedules  it  will  be  necessary  to  apply  to  a  man  whose 
profession  familiarizes  him  with  the  said  schedules  and 
their  requirements." 

Monsieur  Bohler  pondered  the  terms  of  this  letter, 
tapping  the  table  nervously  with  one  finger. 

"There  is  some  plot  behind  this;  a  Kummel  or  some 
spy  of  the  same  sort  is  at  the  bottom  of  it.  .  .  .  Evi- 
dently, they  want  Mademoiselle  Wahler's  head!  The 
worthy  old  soul  teaches  my  boys  German,  but  she  also 
teaches  dozens  of  Mulhouse  urchins  French.  For  the 
last  thirty  years  she  has  done  more  to  maintain  French 
influence  in  Alsace  than  all  the  fine  speakers.  They 
know  this,  and  they  want  to  starve  her.  ...  As  to  you. 
Monsieur  Reymond,  I  think  we  shall  be  able  to  arrange 
matters.  They  won't  go  any  further.  Our  factory  sub- 
sidizes various  associations,  courses  of  instruction  for  ap- 
prentices, etc.  Those  who  hold  weapons  are  respected. 
But  where  are  we  to  find  a  German  professor?  " 

"  I  can  only  think  of  one,"  replied  Madame  Bohler. 
"  We  should  be  left  in  peace  then." 

"  Who  is  your  man?  " 

"Kummel  himself.  Four  hours  of  private  tuition  a 
week  would  be  a  pleasant  addition  to  his  salary.  He 
would  think  it  his  mission  to  Germanize  our  boys,  and. 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  67 

with  this  end  in  view,  he  would  refrain  from  denouncing 
us.  Really,  Kummel  is  our  fate.  He  will  be  our  light- 
ning-conductor." 

"  No.  I  won't  have  the  cur  in  my  house  at  any  price. 
Still  less  will  I  send  my  boys  to  his." 

"How  would  it  be  to  let  him  give  the  lessons  in  my 
rooms,  Monsieur?  "  proposed  Reymond.  "  I  could  then 
be  present  at  them." 

"That's  an  idea,  and  a  very  good  one.  It's  no  use 
kicking  against  the  pricks.  I  agree.  Will  you  make 
the  pVoposal  to  the  pedagogue  on  my  behalf?  I  should 
prefer  to  have  no  direct  dealings  with  him.  .  .  .  But 
now  tell  me  just  what  the  Inspector  said  to  you?  " 

There  was  a  good  deal  of  laughter  about  Jean's  ele- 
phants and  giraffes  and  Rene's  Golden  Bull. 

"  Luckily  for  us,"  said  Madame  Bohler,  "  these  worthy 
Germanizers  are  not  very  dexterous.  If  they  were,  we 
should  be  lost!  Imagine  an  Inspector  who  would  talk 
pleasantly  to  children,  forgetting  for  a  moment  that  he 
is  a  German  and  showing  himself  as  a  man,  quite  simply; 
telling  them  stories  about  Togoland,  congratulating  them 
on  what  they  know  instead  of  ridiculing  them.  But  this 
is  not  their  way.  They  come  as  missionaries,  bringing 
culture,  science,  art.  They  bring  their  German  might  to 
bear  upon  everything.  They  have  no  conception  of  tact. 
This  Inspector  evidently  knows  —  indeed,  they  know 
everything  —  that  my  husband's  two  brothers  were  killed 
in  1870.  So,  of  course,  he  talks  of  '  our  Alsace  '  to  the 
nephews  of  those   dead   men.     This  enrages   the   boys 


68  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

beyond  expression.  But  these  methods  are  the  outcome 
of  the  German  mind.  The  conqueror  is  irresistible;  he 
is  endowed  with  every  grace,  from  the  mere  fact  that  he  is 
the  conqueror,  and  this  even  when  he  instals  himself  in 
the  house  of  his  victim.  His  irony  is  but  another  attrac- 
tion added  to  all  the  rest. 

"Let  us  thank  God  for  having  made  them  what  they 
are,"  said  Monsieur  Bohler.  "  If  they  had  combined 
tact,  respect  for  others,  and  delicate  feeling,  with  their 
genius  for  organization,  the  whole  world  would  have  been 
at  their  feet." 

After  the  snow  came  a  heavy  black  rain.  The  gutters 
overflowed.  The  water  lay  in  pools  amidst  the  slimy 
mud.  A  yellow  fog  hung  over  the  hill-tops  and  mingled 
with  the  smoke  from  the  factories.  Umbrellas  glistened 
along  the  road;  the  workmen  plodded  along,  their  coat- 
collars  turned  up. 

"  A  wet  day,"  said  one. 

"So  much  the  better,"  replied  another;  "it  couldn't 
be  too  wet  today." 

Before  the  town-hall  and  the  police-station  figures 
were  moving  about  in  the  gloaming.  Thick  necks  and 
uplifted  arms  were  distinguishable.  The  dim  light  and 
the  persistent  rain  gave  a  dismal  air  to  the  silent  prepara- 
tions. For  a  moment  the  flags  floated  out  from  their 
standards.  Presently,  weighed  down  by  the  rain,  they 
fell  into  a  sullen  mass,  showing  only  the  black.  / 

And  the  bells  of  the  valley  were  ringing.  They 
sounded  dull  and  hollow.     What  could  those  poor  bells 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  69 

say?  They  speak  in  the  voices  given  them  by  men. 
Reymond's  heart  ached  for  all  the  dead  sleeping  under 
the  earth  of  battlefields,  for  all  the  living  shut  up  in  their 
houses.  The  bells  of  Thann,  of  Mulhouse,  of  Sainte- 
Odile,  of  Strasburg,  of  Metz,  the  bells  of  all  the  villages 
in  the  upper  valleys  of  the  Vosges,  swinging  to  tell  men 
that  the  morrow  would  be  the  birthday  of  the  Conqueror. 
And  the  music  was  unspeakably  sad.  The  joy-bells 
seemed  to  be  ringing  a  knell,  for  a  lie  lay  heavy  on  the 
souls  of  those  who  were  forced  to  pull  the  ropes. 

"  What  would  you  say,"  thought  Reymond,  sitting  in  a 
corner  of  his  room  in  the  dark,  "  if  the  bells  of  Basle, 
Zurich,  Berne,  Geneva,  and  of  your  own  Cathedral  of 
Lausanne,  which  have  so  often  pealed  on  the  red-letter 
days  of  your  happy  fatherland,  should  some  evening  ring 
to  celebrate  the  victory  of  the  foreigner?  If  the  dead 
were  lying  in  the  churchyards  by  thousands,  men  who 
had  gone  down  into  the  land  of  shadows  for  the  salvation 
of  their  country,  but  in  vain!  The  flag  you  love  is 
furled.  It  is  hidden  in  an  attic.  Another  floats  in  its 
place.  The  tramp  of  the  invader  echoes  from  the  pave- 
ment of  the  streets.  Torches  flare.  Military  bands, 
with  their  sonorous  brasses,  parade  the  insolent  joy  of 
the  alien  whose  claws  are  planted  in  the  very  heart  of 
your  country." 

From  the  Vosges  to  the  Rhine,  from  Luxemburg  to 
Switzerland,  in  the  birthplace  of  Kleber  and  of  Rapp,  the 
bells  rang  on  until  the  thick  darkness  came  down  upon 
the  roofs. 


70  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

The  next  day  it  was  still  raining.  Sporrmann  the  po- 
liceman made  an  early  round.  ...  A  flag  on  the  bal- 
cony of  the  town-hall,  another  on  the  balcony  of  the 
Justice,  another  at  Kraut's  house,  another  at  Kummel's, 
another  at  Maus  the  merchant's,  another  at  the  bailiff's, 
another  at  the  ranger's,  another  at  the  station-master's. 
Ten  red,  white,  and  black  flags  in  all,  as  there  were  last 
year,  and  as  there  had  been  as  far  back  as  he  could 
remember,  counting  his  own  and  that  of  his  colleague, 
Taubenspeck.  He  made  a  note  of  it,  for  statistical  pur- 
poses. And  nine  red-and-white  flags  at  the  rural  police- 
man's house,  at  the  house  of  Kummel's  colleague,  on  the 
fronts  of  the  seven  Wirtschaften,  Elsewhere,  or  rather 
everywhere  else,  nothing  was  to  be  seen  but  closely 
drawn  curtains.  Nineteen  flags!  .  ,  .  Policeman  Sporr- 
mann indulged  in  a  dream.  He  longed  to  bring  the 
total  up  to  twenty.  Next  year,  perhaps,  if  Karl  is  really 
applying  for  an  innkeeper's  licence  .  .  . 

The  chimneys  belch  out  smoke.  The  machines  whirr 
and  buzz.  The  river  runs  swiftly  over  its  white  pebbles. 
The  day  is  like  all  other  days,  save  in  the  school.  The 
children  cannot  escape.  Willingly  or  unwillingly,  they 
have  to  swallow  what  others  refuse.  Sent  to  ramble  in 
the  forest,  they  have  gathered  holly,  ivy,  and  little 
branches  of  fir,  with  which  they  will  presently  bedeck  a 
niche.  .  .  .  Now,  drawn  up  in  procession  behind  the  um- 
brella of  Schoolmaster  Kummel,  who  is  arrayed  in  a 
frock-coat  and  a  tall  hat,  they  go  to  the  town-hall  to 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  71 

fetch  the  plaster  bust  of  the  Emperor  with  the  strongly- 
marked  forehead,  the  severe  eyes,  the  hard  mouth,  and 
the  fierce  moustaches,  accentuated  by  the  dust  which  has 
gathered  for  a  year  on  the  august  effigy.  .  .  .  The  bust  is 
duly  installed.  Kummel  rises.  He  speaks  of  God,  of  the 
Emperor,  of  the  Emperor  and  God.  He  speaks  of  the 
colonies.  He  speaks  of  the  eight  millions  of  German 
soldiers.  He  speaks  of  the  influence  of  Germany  in  the 
world,  of  all  she  still  has  to  do  in  order  to  purify  the 
world  of  the  sins  which  are  consuming  it  like  a  leprosy. 
Armed  with  a  switch,  he  points  out  on  the  map  the  course 
of  German  steamers  on  the  blue  oceans.  He  shows  in 
Brazil,  in  Argentina,  in  Nicaragua,  in  China,  everywhere, 
a  hundred  youthful  Germanies  in  process  of  formation. 
It  is  the  will  of  God!  With  mystic  fervour  he  enlarges 
on  the  gratitude  of  Alsace,  her  joy  in  belonging  to  the 
regal  nation,  of  the  incense  smoking  upon  her  altars  and 
rising  to  the  thrones  of  God  and  the  Emperor,  the  Em- 
peror and  God. 

The  grandsons  of  those  who  died  for  France  listen  to 
his  words.  These  innocents,  the  biggest  of  whom  is 
hardly  higher  than  a  man's  knee,  gaze  at  him  open- 
mouthed.  Then  Kummel  turns  to  the  bust,  to  which  he 
bows  reverentially.  And  thrice,  raising  his  arms  to 
heaven,  his  eyes  gleaming,  his  long  body  quivering,  he 
shouts  to  the  ceiling:  Hoch!  hoch!  hoch!  .  .  .  The 
children,  who  think  this  very  amusing,  and  love  a  noise, 
echo  him  loudly:     Hoch!  hoch!  hoch!    The  boys  group 


72  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

themselves  at  a  given  sign.  Standing  in  a  semicircle 
round  the  bust,  cap  in  hand,  they  chant:  Deutschland, 
Deutschland  ilber  A  lies!  .  .  . 

The  rites  are  over.  The  boys  are  dismissed.  And  as 
they  are  now  free  to  do  what  they  please,  they  march 
along,  stamping  on  the  ground,  and  throwing  their  caps 
into  the  air,  they  sing  in  deafening  chorus: 

Wenn  der  Kater  nicht  haarig  ist 
Fdngt  er  keine  Mouse.  .  .  . 

This  is  more  spontaneous  than  the  Deutschland  iiber 
Alles! 

Wrapped  in  a  number  of  the  Strassburger  Post,  the 
Imperial  bust  is  carried  by  Kummel  to  the  inn,  Zum 
weissen  Lamm, 

Shortly  afterwards,  the  procession  starts  from  the 
railway-station:  all  the  ofl&cials  of  Friedensbach,  and  in 
addition  the  Customs  officers,  rangers,  postmen,  rural 
policemen  and  clerks  of  the  neighbourhood,  the  presi- 
dents, vice-presidents,  and  treasurers  of  the  Kriegerve- 
reine  or  military  associations:  exactly  forty-one  frock- 
coats,  forty-one  tall  hats,  and  forty-one  umbrellas. 
Kraut,  Kummel,  and  Doring  are  there,  of  course.  On 
their  breasts  are  medals  enough  to  decorate  a  division. 
In  front  of  the  frock-coats  —  cedant  togce  armis  —  march 
those  who  have  some  sort  of  right  to  wear  a  uniform: 
officers  of  the  Reserve,  retired  officers  of  the  Reserve, 
privy  councillors  and  very  privy  councillors,  plumes, 
epaulettes,  spurs,  boots,  gold,  shoulder-knots,  paunches 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  73 

severely  held  in  by  belts  buckled  to  the  last  hole.  At  the 
head  of  the  procession,  six  musicians  lent  by  a  regimental 
band.  In  short,  a  complete  mobilization  of  missionaries 
of  the  national  Idea.  Strength  of  conviction  gives  a  cer- 
tain grandeur  to  these  men.  They  hold  a  cure  of  .souls. 
They  are  the  priests  of  a  religion.  The  chief  has  or- 
dered them  to  advance  .  .  .  and  they  advance.  Outposts 
of  Deutschtum  in  a  rebel  land,  or  rather  in  a  land  per- 
verted by  foreign  influences,  it  is  their  task  to  impose 
Truth.  Sentiment  is  but  weakness,  the  worship  of  the 
past  but  perversity  and  disease. 

You  laugh,  you  who  have  not  seen  them.  You  shrug 
your  shoulders.  You  talk  of  a  grotesque  caricature,  of 
absurd  exaggeration.  .  .  .  Come,  I  say  to  you  peaceful 
dwellers  in  a  free  country,  draw  aside  the  curtain  and 
look;  see  here,  in  the  rain,  the  swing  of  those  forty  frock- 
coats,  the  swords,  the  helmets,  but,  above  all,  the  fore- 
heads, the  jaws,  the  bristling  moustaches,  the  gloved  fists, 
the  furious  eyes  that  note  the  absence  of  flags  on  the 
house-fronts,  the  haughtiness  of  the  tread,  the  scorn  in 
the  shoulders,  the  infallibility  of  the  chests,  the  doctrine 
that  seems  to  ooze  from  every  pore:  "We  are  the  mas- 
ters. We  will  break  down  all  resistance.  God  has  given 
us  our  right,  the  Emperor  has  given  us  our  orders." 

When  you  have  seen  such  a  Pan-Germanist  parade  in 
a  humble  Alsatian  country  town  you  will  say:  "Yes,  it 
is  lamentable,  but,  after  all,  you  must  acknowledge  the 
indisputable  virtues  of  these  men." 

"Yes,"  a  Victor  Weiss  will  reply,  "they  are  perfect. 


74  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

All  we  complain  of  is  that  they  have  been  sitting  on  our 
hearts  for  forty  years,  and  that  they  are  heavy !  " 

What  a  banquet!  What  libations!  At  intervals  a 
stentorian  chorus.  Then  a  succession  of  Hochs!  .  .  . 
An  orator  rises.  From  the  street  we  can  only  see  his 
outstretched  hands,  the  movement  of  his  jaws,  his  asser- 
tive paunch.  What  is  he  saying?  .  .  .  The  Hochs!  are 
reiterated  with  savage  energy.  Another  song.  Now 
they  are  laughing,  and  as  the  windows  have  been  opened 
to  let  out  the  tobacco-smoke,  this  post-prandial  laughter 
echoes  in  the  empty  street.  The  merchant  Maus,  one  of 
the  "rallied,"  raises  his  glass  higher  than  the  others. 
They  congratulate  him.  The  idea  is  gaining  ground. 
.  .  .  Deutschland  liber  A  lies! 

Policeman  Taubenspeck  little  knows  that  some  rascals, 
taking  advantage  of  this  patriotic  delirium,  have  got 
hold  of  his  white  tom-cat  and  have  painted  its  head  blue 
and  its  tail  red,  so  that  when  he  returns  to  his  home  in 
the  small  hours  he  will  find  a  tricoloured  flag  on  his 
doorstep!  .  .  .  But  Taubenspeck  has  no  forebodings. 
He  is  too  busy  lifting  his  glass.  And  the  tricoloured 
cat  is  patient.     It  will  wait. 

Reymond  had  paid  a  visit  to  the  old  Schmolers.  The 
tall  clock  ticked  sedately  in  the  warm  room,  every  slow 
movement  seeming  about  to  be  its  last.  .  .  .  The  sounds 
of  the  festival  echoed  faintly  in  this  quiet  nook.  After 
an  outburst  of  stamping  and  cheering,  old  Jacobine 
trembled. 

"  Do  you  think,  Monsieur,  that  they  are  getting  ready 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  75 

for  another  war,  as  some  people  say?  Oh!  war!  war! 
.  .  .  We  have  had  enough  of  it  in  Alsace!  Ever  since 
there  has  been  a  France  and  a  Germany  they  have  been 
fighting  here,  on  the  backs  of  us  poor  folks.  My  mother, 
for  instance  —  we  need  not  go  further  back  than  that  — 
saw  the  Cossacks  in  Friedensbach,  in  the  time  of  the 
great  Napoleon.  How  often  she  has  told  us  the  story! 
Thump!  One  evening  some  one  was  kicking  the  door, 
that  very  door  you  open  every  night.  .  .  .  Lord,  it  was 
the  Cossacks!  And  they  were  hungry,  and  so  ugly, 
dirty  and  black  as  the  bottom  of  a  saucepan.  My  mother 
hastened  to  bring  them  a  soup-tureen  full  of  potatoes. 
Her  hand  trembled  as  she  stood  among  these  savages 
armed  with  lances,  grimacing  like  devils.  The  handle 
slipped,  the  tureen  crashed  to  the  ground,  and  the  con- 
tents lay  on  the  road  in  the  mud.  Well,  Monsieur,  those 
ten  Cossacks  sprang  from  their  horses,  knelt  down,  gath- 
ered up  the  soup  and  the  potatoes  from  the  dirt  and 
manure,  gobbled  them  up,  jumped  into  their  saddles 
again,  gave  a  shout  and  a  laugh,  and  galloped  away. 
My  mother  was  lucky  to  get  off  so  cheaply.  ...  In  other 
places  they  set  fire  to  the  houses  and  stabbed  the  peasants. 
"  I  myself  saw  Strasburg  burning  in  1870.  I  was  in 
service  in  a  village  fifteen  kilometres  away.  Every  night 
bombs  burst  with  a  flash,  just  like  lightning,  and  we 
heard  the  noise  some  time  afterwards.  At  last  one  night 
we  saw  fire.  All  the  sky  was  red,  red,  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach.  I  watched  it  for  a  minute  from  my  bed- 
room window.     And  then  I  couldn't  look  any  longer. 


76  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

I  hid  my  face  in  my  handkerchief  and  cried.  And  I 
could  still  see  the  red  through  the  handkerchief.  Yes, 
indeed,  we  know  something  of  war  in  Alsace.  There 
was  a  field  hospital  at  my  sister's  house  near  Wissem- 
bourg.  And  they  buried  thirty  legs  and  even  more  arms 
behind  the  lilacs  in  her  garden.  Oh!  war!  Just  listen, 
how  they  are  shouting!  War!  My  husband,  too,  has 
seen  it;  he  even  took  part  in  it." 

Madame  Vogel  and  her  sister  came  in.  They  sat 
down,  their  hands  on  their  knees. 

"Yes,  indeed;  I  served  all  through  the  Metz  cam- 
paign. .  .  .  They  talk  of  victories,  but  we  were  betrayed. 
How  we  marched  and  fought  for  days  and  nights  to- 
gether! What  bombardments!  What  masses  of  dead! 
And  the  wounded!  How  they  screamed!  When  we 
charged,  we  jumped  into  pools  of  blood.  When  we  had 
to  retreat,  we  wept  with  rage.  In  the  evening  the  sky 
was  all  red,  as  at  Strasburg.  Blood,  above  and  below! 
...  I  saw  a  ditch  with  forty-seven  dead  men  in  it,  and  on 
the  top  was  my  best  friend,  staring  at  me  with  wide-open 
eyes.  Such  horrors!  And  then  I  was  a  prisoner.  And 
when  I  came  home,  they  were  here,  just  as  they  have 
been  ever  since.  The  soil  is  good,  life  is  easy.  .  .  . 
Corn,  hops,  vines.  .  .  .  Those  who  find  a  good  thing 
stick  to  it." 

Jacob  listened  to  these  tales,  seated  on  the  bench  by 
the  stove.     Suddenly  he  said: 

"  Grandfather,  shall  we  fight  the  Germans  again?  " 

"Be  quiet,  child,"  said  his  mother.     "You  do  not 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  77 

know   what   war    is.    All    that    is    over,    fortunately." 

"  No!  "  protested  the  boy;  "  once  more,  and  then  never 
again." 

The  grandfather  smiled. 

"  You  see,  it's  in  their  blood." 

All  night  the  rain  that  lashed  the  window-panes  min- 
gled its  murmurs  with  the  Hochs!  At  dawn  uncertain 
footsteps,  wandering  frock-coats,  decorations,  and  flushed 
faces,  confronted  the  storm.  Leaving  the  merchant 
Maus  to  address  a  martial  harangue  to  the  trunk  of  a 
plane-tree,  Taubenspeck  leant  over  the  basin  of  the 
fountain,  "breathing  out  threatenings  and  slaughters" 
as  he  washed  his  tom-cat,  held  by  two  functionaries  who 
had  laid  their  tall  hats  on  the  stone  margin. 

Herzog  the  shoemaker,  disturbed  in  his  sleep,  grum- 
bled: 

"Back  to  your  kennels.  Imperial  hogsheads!  "  And 
this  was  the  epilogue  of  the  feast. 

The  next  day,  when  Kummel  opened  the  door  himself 
to  Reymond,  his  eyelids  were  still  swollen,  his  features 
drawn,  his  complexion  mottled.  This  did  not  prevent 
him,  however,  a  few  minutes  later,  from  catching  a  new 
French  idiom  on  the  wing,  as  it  were. 

"Very  good;  an  excellent  Gallicism  that.  Allow  me 
to  make  a  note  of  it." 

As  always,  the  lesson  was  prolonged  into  a  conversa- 
tion.    Kummel  asked  for  advice. 

"  Faithful  to  our  notions  of  culture,  Monsieur,  I  read 


78  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

the  best  French  authors.  That  is  the  difference  between 
us  and  the  French;  they  know  nothing  of  our  writers; 
we  know  all  of  theirs.  This  is  necessary  for  those  who 
intend  to  gain  the  victory.  During  the  last  few  months 
I  have  studied  a  novel  by  Loti,  one  by  Anatole  France, 
one  by  Bourget,  and  one  by  Prevost,  just  a  characteristic 
work  of  each,  enough  for  my  catalogue.  It  is  a  literature 
for  artists,  the  latest  flowers  at  the  moment  when  one 
goes  to  gather  them.  Once  gathered,  there  is  nothing 
left.  No;  it  is  not  a  literature  that  inspires  energy, 
braces  one  for  conflict.  However,  I  read  it.  Culture 
requires  that  I  should.  Can  you  recommend  me  some 
other  author  who  is  considered  representative  of  French 
mentality?  " 

Reymond  was  aghast!  Kummel,  booted  and  spurred, 
ranging  the  parterres  of  France!     He  controlled  himself: 

"  You  should  read  the  complete  works  of  Stephane 
Mallarme.  They  are  rather  difficult;  the  thought  is  some- 
times elusive,  but  with  a  good  dictionary  you  will  be  able 
to  follow  him." 

"Thank  you.  I  will  make  a  note  of  it.  Two  Ts  in 
Mallarme?  Thank  you.  By  the  way,  do  you  consider 
my  accent  very  bad?  " 

"  Not  at  all.  ...  It  is  a  little  hard,  a  little  guttural, 
but  you  articulate  well." 

"  That  is  the  result  of  our  excellent  methods.  In  our 
teachers'  colleges  we  learn  intuitively  and  phonetically. 
That  is  the  German  method.  Yes,  here  again  the  French 
might  take  a  lesson  from  us.  .  .  ." 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  79 

"No  doubt.  .  .  .  And  what  about  your  banquet? 
Was  it  interesting?  " 

"Magnificent!  .  .  .  The  merchant  Maus,  who  is  a 
thoroughbred  Alsatian,  made  a  remarkable  speech.  Like 
all  thinking  men,  he  has  gradually  come  round  to  the 
German  point  of  view.  He  realizes  our  irresistible 
strength.  He  has  succeeded  in  throwing  off  sentiment, 
and  has  rallied  to  our  culture  whole-heartedly.  We  are 
incontestably,  are  we  not,  the  people  destined  to  direct, 
the  people  organized  in  view  of  a  rational  conquest,  of 
a  normal  utilization  of  the  world's  capital?  Our  philos- 
ophers, our  scientists,  our  statesmen,  are  preparing  the 
event.  Just  think:  in  the  eighteenth  century  we  were 
divided,  we  were  ideologists  and  dreamers,  and  our  coun- 
try was  the  battlefield  of  Europe.  Later  we  loved  flow- 
ers, moonlight,  love,  mystical  theories.  Then  Napoleon 
rose,  and  planted  his  foot  on  our  belly  —  yes,  on  our 
belly.  Monsieur!  .  .  .  And  he  was  right,  for  we  were 
weak.  Germany  pulled  herself  together.  She  reflected. 
She  elaborated  her  doctrine.  Bismarck,  our  great  Bis- 
marck, with  his  great  broom,  swept  away  pity,  divaga- 
tions (you  say  divagations?)  on  liberty,  equality,  and 
fraternity.  And  we  beat  Austria,  we  beat  Denmark,  we 
beat  France,  as  we  shall  beat  the  rest.  This  strength  of 
ours  bases  its  eventual  victory  on  its  truth.  It  says,  in 
short:  only  the  strong  man  can  realize  himself.  It  is 
thus  that  humanity  is  fashioned.  The  strong  command. 
The  weak  obey.  And  at  last  everything  is  working  to 
this  end.     This  we  proclaimed  yesterday  at  the  anniver- 


80  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

sary  banquet  of  His  Majesty.  Alsace,  whose  ship  we 
have  launched  on  the  great  river  of  civilization,  must  be- 
come one  of  the  horses  of  our  Imperial  chariot,  or  refuse 
to  draw  it  and  perish  miserably.  We  care  little  which 
fate  she  chooses.  We  are  strong  enough  to  hold  under 
our  fist  millions  of  men  incapable  of  understanding  our 
ideal  and  our  truth,  which  is  the  truth:  the  scientific 
exploitation  of  human  energies." 

Reymond  listened  attentively.  He  felt  no  inclination 
to  smile  at  this  man,  whose  patriotic  mania  made  him 
formidable.  He  merely  asked  him  a  question  —  an  in- 
sidious one,  it  is  true. 

"Are  you  an  Alsatian  by  birth.  Monsieur  Kummel?  " 

Kummel  threw  off  his  mask. 

"No.  I  am  an  Alsatian  by  adoption.  For  over 
twenty-seven  years  I  have  been  struggling  in  this  prov- 
ince, which  is  so  perverted  by  foreign  idealism.  I  have 
adopted  this  country,  to  which  I  am  giving  all  my 
powers,  I  am  consequently  an  Alsatian.  But,  of  course, 
pure  German  blood  only  runs  in  my  veins.  I  say  these 
things  to  you,  because  you,  who  belong  to  a  nation  the 
main  portion  of  which  speaks  the  German  tongue,  are 
capable  of  collaborating  in  our  work." 

The  gaunt  schoolmaster  raised  his  head.  His  truth 
seemed,  indeed,  to  inflate  his  hollow  chest.  The  subject 
was  exhausted  for  the  moment.  Reymond,  in  a  voice 
he  strove  to  make  as  natural  as  possible,  took  occasion 
to  say: 

"  By  the  way.  Monsieur  Kummel,  could  you  undertake 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  81 

to  give  German  lessons  to  my  two  pupils,  the  young  Boh- 
lers?  Their  father  asked  me  to  speak  to  you  about  it. 
Four  hours  a  week,  to  begin.  .  .  ." 

Kummel's  face  was  illuminated. 

"  Certainly !  .  .  .  Yes,  certainly.  It  will  be  an  hon- 
our and  a  pleasure  to  me  to  enter  Monsieur  Bohler's 
house." 

Reymond  hastened  to  put  the  dots  on  the  i's. 

"The  schoolroom  would  not  be  available.     The  les- 
sons would  be  at  my  rooms,  if  you  don't  mind." 
.   "Or  here?" 

"Your  house  is  rather  out  of  the  way  for  us.  And 
there  are  other  reasons.     Let  it  be  at  my  rooms,  please." 

Kummel  bowed. 

"  We  may  look  upon  the  matter  as  settled.  We  can 
arrange  the  details  more  precisely.  ...  I  congratulate 
Monsieur  Bohler.  A  lady  cannot  instruct  men,  es- 
pecially in  our  virile  tongue.  Only  he  who  considers 
our  German  tongue  as  the  expression  of  our  German 
soul  can  be  worthy  of  this  sacred  office." 

When  Reymond  was  gone,  Kummel  said  to  his  wife, 
who  entered,  followed  by  the  small  fry: 

"  Wife,  I,  thy  husband,  Konrad  Kummel,  am  appointed 
tutor  to  the  young  Bohlers.  We  are  at  last  breaking 
open  the  doors  of  high  Alsatian  society.  ...  As  they 
say  themselves,  patience  and  time  do  more  than  force 
and  rage." 

And  he  filled  his  pipe  with  a  guttural  laugh. 


AND  so  in  the  hollow  of  the  valley  the  noise  of  the 
sabots,  the  cry  of  the  hooter,  the  toil  of  the  men  and 
machines,  go  on.  From  morn  till  eve  workers  bend 
over  the  spindles,  or  follow  the  course  of  the  shuttles,  or 
tie  the  broken  thread.  The  whole  factory  is  an  instru- 
ment of  precision,  in  which  men,  too,  are  wheels.  Every- 
thing is  a  matter  of  calculation,  of  returns.  He  who  con- 
sumes so  much  must  produce  so  much.  Regardless  of 
chatter  and  irresponsible  theories,  the  manufacturer  keeps 
his  eye  on  the  current  prices  of  wool  and  cotton,  adds  up 
figures,  compares  them  with  other  figures,  dispatches  his 
telegrams. 

So,  then,  here  there  is  this  industrial  life,  this  com- 
plicated machinery,  this  struggle  with  the  raw  material, 
which  has  to  be  bought,  transformed,  and  exported. 
Elsewhere,  this  is  all.  But  here  the  struggle  is  embittered 
by  the  struggle  against  men  who  wage  war  upon  one's 
habits,  one's  traditions,  one's  language,  one's  soul. 
Thus,  a  man  can  never  unbend  entirely,  and  take  his 
ease,  either  in  his  office,  in  the  street,  in  his  family  circle, 
each  member  of  which  brings  in  some  echo  of  the  conflict, 
or  even  in  church,  where  he  is  ordered  to  pray  for  the 
usurper. 

Pacifism?  Disarmament?  The  enemy  is  within  the 
82 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  83 

fortress  —  a  cunning  and  a  powerful  enemy.  So  one  has 
to  choose  between  suicidal  abdication  and  a  strenuous, 
dangerous  life.  Every  evening  —  what  will  happen  to- 
morrow?—  is  something  of  a  vigil  under  arms. 

Solitude,  meditation.  But  when  so  many  machines 
are  in  motion,  there  is  a  constant  appeal  from  practical 
things.  And  when  one's  country  is  suffocating,  there 
must  be  a  struggle  for  life  even  in  silence,  while  at  times 
a  fever  takes  hold  of  one,  restless  impulses;  then  one 
says:  "  No,  this  cannot  go  on."  And  yet  it  does  go  on. 
One  resigns  oneself.  One  has  to  be  patient,  to  hold  one's 
peace. 

Those  who  grow  up  in  this  virile  and  melancholy 
atmosphere  bear  rude  traces  of  the  conflict.  The  young, 
whose  blood  runs  swift  and  hot,  are  full  of  indignation 
and  astonishment.  Why  do  we  not  rise  and  thrust  the 
intruder  out?  They  collect  prints  showing  the  prohibited 
uniforms;  they  have  notebooks  in  which  they  inscribe 
the  names  of  battleships,  the  number  of  guns  and  aero- 
planes? They  talk  of  the  time  "  when  we  shall  have  got 
back  Alsace  "  with  all  the  superb  light-heartedness  of 
youth.  Meanwhile,  year  is  added  to  year,  experience  to 
experience;  they  feel  in  their  turn  all  the  weight  of  the 
yoke.  Many,  in  the  revolt  of  their  hearts  and  bodies, 
struggle  furiously  against  the  strait-waistcoat  in  which 
they  are  to  be  clothed;  others,  with  precocious  gravity, 
wrap  themselves  in  silence,  and  prepare  for  a  long  pa- 
tience. 

Reymond  found  all  these  traits  of  the  Alsatian  char- 


84  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

acter,  fashioned  by  nearly  forty  years  of  annexation,  in 
Ihis  pupils. 

Emile  Zumbach,  aged  fifteen,  was  a  taciturn  lad, 
greatly  interested  in  chemistry  and  mathematics.  It 
sometimes  happened  that  he  never  opened  his  lips 
throughout  a  walk  of  two  hours.  He  had  no  pretensions 
to  elegance.  Thick  calves,  short  thighs,  a  solid  torso, 
crowned  by  a  head  with  full  cheeks.  In  his  eyes  a  per- 
tinacity, a  slow  reflectiveness  —  slow,  but  sure  of  its 
object.  As  an  engineer  or  chemist,  he  would  continue 
the  line  of  those  who  have  made  the  wealth  and  strength 
of  Alsace.  To  be  and  not  to  seem.,  to  act  and  not  to  talk, 
is  their  motto. 

Andre  Berger,  a  handsome  fellow,  distrustful  and 
argumentative,  was  apparently  very  different,  but  in  real- 
ity closely  akin  to  him.  His  favourite  phrase  was:  It's 
not  proved.  According  to  him,  antiquity,  people  with 
nymphs  and  interwoven  with  myths,  lasted  until  the  Uni- 
versal Exhibition  of  1900.  Then  the  scientific  era  be- 
gan. Fiction  made  him  smile.  .  .  .  Racine?  Pretty 
words,  which  lead  to  nothing.  This  harshness  in  the  ex- 
pression of  his  thought,  this  sense  of  utility,  and  also  his 
splendid  rectitude,  made  Andre  a  typical  Alsatian.  His 
tutor  said  to  him  one  day:  "You  are  always  mocking 
at  sentiment.  Now  listen.  On  what  grounds  do  you 
protest  against  the  annexation?  " 

He  replied  as  follows :  "  Before  a  transaction  is  con- 
cluded, all  those  concerned  have  to  agree  to  it.  Did  we 
Alsatians  ever  agree  to  the  annexation?     No;  so  to  us 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  85 

it  is  not  binding,  it  was  not  a  loyal  compact.  Loyalty  is 
not  a  sentiment.  By  sentiment  I  mean  the  whimperings 
of  yomig  girls,  their  forget-me-not  albums,  and  the  like." 

By  which,  no  doubt,  Berger  meant  to  say  that  loyalty 
is  more  a  matter  of  intellectual  purity  than  a  quality  of 
the  heart,  and  that  sentiments  which  are  too  freely  formu- 
lated are  enervating.  He  had  the  reticence  of  a  healthy 
boy  brought  up  in  the  German  school,  who  had  deliber- 
ately adopted  something  of  its  hardness.  He  summed 
up  his  thoughts  in  these  terms:  "We  shall  not  get  Al- 
sace back  by  means  of  literature." 

Charles  Weiss  and  Rene  Bohler  were  very  much  alike. 
The  two  friends,  who  had  long  bent  over  the  same  alpha- 
bet and  played  the  same  pranks,  were  now  separated  by 
their  studies;  for  one  was  to  remain  in  Alsace,  while  the 
other  was  to  seek  his  fortune  in  France.  Delighted  to  be 
together  twice  a  week,  they  whistled  the  same  tunes,  ran 
at  the  same  pace,  greeted  the  same  old  people,  and 
climbed  the  same  trees.  If  one  threw  a  stone  into  the 
river,  the  other  thought  it  incumbent  on  him  to  perform 
the  same  feat.  They  were  a  frank,  noisy,  greedy,  pair, 
bubbling  over  with  laughter  at  every  trifle.  Their  fa- 
vourite studies  were  geography  and  geology,  everything 
connected  with  figures,  superficies,  and  the  bones  which 
enable  the  scientist  to  determine  periods.  They  were  the 
Alsatian  hedonist  in  bud.  Yet  sometimes  from  out  this 
apparent  superficiality  came  a  profound  word,  a  right- 
eous anger,  revealing  the  drama  that  underlay  their 
youthful  joy  and  health. 


86  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

One  evening  the  band  was  returning  from  a  walk.  As 
they  passed  the  graveyard  of  Moosch,  Rene  said  suddenly 
to  his  friend: 

"  I  am  glad  I'm  not  one  of  those  in  there.  They  won't 
see  us  drive  the  Schwobs  out  of  Alsace." 

Charles  Weiss  replied:  "Drive  out  the  Schwobs? 
And  if  we  are  killed?  .  .  .  Then  it  will  be  our  turn  for 
the  churchyard." 

"  It  won't  matter  being  killed,  if  we  have  had  time 
to  see  them  clearing  out  first." 

"  That's  true.  But  it  will  be  wretched  for  those  who 
fall  at  the  beginning,  before  one  can  be  sure." 

Such  are  the  words  of  Alsatian  boys  —  boys  of  thir- 
teen, fourteen,  and  fifteen,  whose  voices  are  changing, 
whose  socks  are  turned  over  their  shoes,  who  have  sturdy 
legs,  good  digestions,  and  a  great  capacity  for  frolic  and 
mischief,  and  yet  who  can  suddenly  talk  in  the  sunshine 
of  dying  for  their  province. 

Jean  Bohler  was  a  creature  of  a  different  clay.  To 
understand  him,  one  had  to  know  his  mother,  a  refined 
and  cultivated  Frenchwoman,  exquisitely  tactful;  born 
in  the  country,  she  had  been  brought  up  in  Paris,  and 
had  married  into  Alsace.  Suddenly  she  had  accepted 
the  task  of  silent  duty.  From  the  concerts,  lectures, 
and  lively  conversations  of  Paris,  she  had  come  to  the 
sheltered  valley,  the  patois  of  workmen,  the  Sunday  bells 
ringing  for  High  Mass.  She  was  a  Protestant,  which 
increased  her  isolation.  Thus,  in  the  temple  of  her  soul 
there  was  a  sort  of  quiet  blossoming,  nourished  by  beauti- 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  87 

ful  books,  read  and  re-read,  clarified  until  all  that  lin- 
gered in  the  memory  was  their  human  quality;  she 
planned  and  dreamt  during  the  long  afternoons,  when  all 
were  at  work,  evolving  a  habit  of  personal  courage,  of 
resignation  to  uncongenial  things;  the  wish  to  shed 
around  her  that  warmth  of  heart  thanks  to  which  the 
home  —  all  that  really  belongs  to  the  Alsatian  —  is  a 
home  indeed. 

This  wealth  of  pensive  feeling,  this  warm  sensibility, 
this  respect  for  work  —  which  was  Monsieur  Bohler's 
religion  —  Jean  had  received  at  birth.  At  fifteen  he 
loved  to  seek  the  knotty  points  of  a  question,  listening 
attentively  to  arguments  and  objections,  recognizing  the 
complexity  of  problems.  Reverent  and  sensitive,  grieved 
and  agitated  by  the  sight  of  injustice  triumphant,  he  was 
foredoomed  to  suffer  in  life,  to  be  caught  in  more  than 
one  net,  to  bruise  his  wings  against  more  than  one  bar- 
rier. In  difficult  hours  he  would  seek  consolation  in 
music,  that  world  of  sonorous  reverie,  of  immaterial 
realities,  of  poignant  beauty  and  divine  appeasement. 
.  .  .  Passionate,  shy  as  boys  naturally  are  who  have  no 
sisters,  few  friends,  hardly  any  one  to  confide  in  outside 
their  own  family,  Jean  concentrated  all  his  powers  on 
his  studies.  How  often  Reymond  had  unobtrusively 
watched  his  pupil  bending  over  a  problem  or  a  transla- 
tion, had  noted  the  beautiful  outline  of  the  brow,  the 
clear  eyes,  the  precocious  gravity  of  the  expression,  the 
delicacy  of  the  hands  pressed  upon  the  temples  as  if  to 
hold  fast  attention. 


88  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

Reymond  was  fond  of  all  his  pupils,  and  rejoiced  to  see 
them  asserting  their  different  individualities  with  all  the 
exaggeration  of  their  age,  but  he  could  not  help  feeling 
a  special  attraction  in  Jean  Bohler,  recognizing  as  he  did 
the  spiritual  beauty  of  his  character. 

On  Wednesday  and  Saturday  afternoons  the  boys  fore- 
gathered. In  winter  they  crowded  into  the  small  school- 
room, but  as  soon  as  the  fine  weather  set  in  there  were 
outdoor  excursions,  butterfly  hunts,  and  searches  for  crys- 
tals, discussions,  and  happy  bursts  of  laughter. 

On  a  certain  Wednesday  in  March  the  little  band  set 
out.  The  first  mild  days  were  at  hand,  when  the  prim- 
roses shed  their  radiance  on  the  sloping  banks.  Near 
the  washing-troughs,  where  kneeling  women  were  wring- 
ing out  linen,  sheets  were  drying  in  the  azure  air.  The 
geese,  walking  sedately  in  couples,  were  seeking  pastur- 
age in  the  meadows.  .  .  .  The  little  terraced  gardens  and 
brown  roofs  of  Friedensbach,  the  still  leafless  orchards, 
the  yellow  line  of  the  river  swollen  by  the  melting  of  the 
snow,  lay  in  the  embrace  of  the  blue  hills  and  mountains 
to  which  the  smoke  of  fires  lighted  in  the  fields  rose  in 
joyous  columns. 

Suddenly  the  road  was  animated  by  a  rhythmic  tramp, 
the  flash  of  drawn  swords  and  bristling  helmets.  Some 
battalion  was  exercising. 

"Let  us  be  off!  "  cried  Rene.  "  Hort's  garden;  the 
gate  is  open." 

It  was  a  very  old  garden,  with  a  hornbeam  hedge  box 
borders,  and  a  service-tree  in  flower.     Old  Hort  was  clip- 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  89 

ping  his  hedge.  They  could  hear  the  sharp  click  of  the 
secateurs.  He  laughed  silently  at  the  invasion  of  his 
domain.  At  the  school,  Kummel  was  full  of  energy. 
He  drove  his  pupils  out  and  arranged  them  in  line;  fear 
and  curiosity  struggled  for  the  mastery  in  their  little 
faces.  The  Justice  appeared;  the  policemen,  marching 
slowly,  buttoned  tightly  into  their  closely  fitting  tunics; 
then  Kraut,  beaming,  his  pen  behind  his  ear. 

"  There  is  storm  in  the  air ;  the  worms  are  coming  out," 
said  old  Hort  on  his  ladder. 

The  battalion  approached.  Reymond's  five  pupils  hid- 
ing behind  the  thicket,  the  kneeling  washerwomen  with 
their  bowed  heads,  seemed  living  images  of  conquered 
Alsace.  .  .  .  There  was  a  hoarse  shout.  The  sharp  slap 
of  a  thousand  guns  on  a  thousand  shoulders.  A  second 
shout;  the  heavy  sound  of  boots  grinding  the  soil;  the 
splendid  clamour  of  brass  instruments;  the  shrill  piping 
of  the  fifes;  the  Chinese  bells  all  a-quiver;  the  dull, 
intermittent  thud  of  the  drumsticks  on.  the  great  drum. 
The  numbered,  ticketed,  trained  and  disciplined  mass, 
belaboured  by  orders,  flowed  along  like  the  stream  of  an 
embanked  river.  Confronted  with  this  manifest  cohe- 
sion, the  individual  hesitated  and  effaced  himself. 
Round  faces,  flat  faces,  all  submissive;  harshly  outlined 
chins,  the  rictus  of  lips  contracted  by  effort,  the  flash  of 
the  eye  quenched  in  obedience,  lined  necks  stretched  for- 
ward as  towards  a  fatality;  and  everywhere  so  mathe- 
matically aligned  that  it  made  the  spectator's  head  swim; 
the  four  booted  feet  thrown  forward,  the  four  booted 


90  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

feet  planted  on  the  ground,  the  four  swinging  arms,  the 
four  cowhide  knapsacks,  the  four  parallel  rifles,  the  four 
docile  faces,  the  four  spikes  of  the  four  helmets;  among 
the  officers,  a  tension  of  every  muscle,  a  haughty  ele- 
gance, swords  upheld  like  principles;  the  whole  rolling 
along  behind  the  strident  cries  of  the  fifes  and  the  boom- 
ing of  the  big  drum,  a  formidable  force,  one  man  the 
counterpart  of  another,  one  section  the  replica  of  an- 
other section,  one  company  identical  with  another  com- 
pany; each  physically  alike,  mentally  alike,  each  show- 
ing the  same  alert  expectation  of  an  order,  after  which 
all  would  halt,  as  if  thunderstruck,  and  then  proceed  as 
before. 

When  the  noise  died  away  in  the  distance,  when  the 
last  rifles  had  turned  the  corner  of  the  street,  a  kind  of 
disciplined  terror  still  prevailed.  The  inhabitants  shook 
their  heads,  subjugated. 

The  walking  party  entered  the  path  that  climbs  the 
mountain  in  silence.  Suddenly,  as  if  an  order  had  gone 
round,  the  five  pupils  began  to  declaim.  .  .  .  Around 
them,  ever  since  they  could  remember,  there  had  been 
sighs  and  lamentations;  exiles  who  were  forbidden  to 
come  and  greet  father  and  mother,  or  to  follow  their 
coffins;  peaceable  folks  ordered  off  within  forty-eight 
hours,  for  no  ostensible  reason;  others  tolerated  from 
sunrise  to  sunset,  but  obliged  to  go  and  spend  the  night 
at  Basle;  disorganized  lives,  resentments,  hatreds. 

"You  know,"  said  Rene,  "when  our  cousin  Marthe 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  91 

married  a  Saxon,  father  said:  'She  is  dead  now.'  No 
one  ever  mentions  her." 

Then  Charles  Weiss: 

"My  father  says  the  French  pacifists  are  fools,  and 
that  one  does  not  throw  away  one's  stick  when  the  wolf 
is  prowling  round  the  house." 

Zumbach  continued: 

"  As  to  me,  I  will  never  forgive  them  for  forcing  us  to 
shout  Hoch!  on  the  Emperor's  birthday." 

"  What!     Do  you  really  shout?  " 

"  One  has  to.  They  watch  to  see  whether  you  open 
your  mouth  or  not." 

All  five  exclaimed  in  chorus:  "It's  disgusting!  dis- 
gusting! .  .  .  We  are  made  to  tell  lies  all  the  time." 

"We  have  to  say  that  Charlemagne  was  a  German 
Emperor." 

"  We  have  to  sing,  '  Germany,  0  my  fatherland !  '  " 

"  We  have  to  say  that  Alsace  suffered  under  the  French 
yoke." 

"  And  that  Kummel !  "  interjected  Jean  Bohler.  "  The 
day  you  were  at  Mulhouse,  Monsieur,  he  told  us  that 
France  was  rotten  to  the  core,  that  she  had  no  longer 
any  children,  any  religion,  any  morality,  anything!  He 
said  that  all  the  authors  of  the  Revolution  were  madmen, 
and  that  they  had  proved  this  by  guillotining  each  other; 
that  God  had  decreed  the  triumph  of  the  healthy  nations, 
and  that  those  who  oppose  the  plans  of  Germany  are 
fools  or  people  who  prefer  debauchery  to  discipline." 


92  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

"And  what  did  you  say?  "  asked  Reymond. 

"Nothing.     Father  has  forbidden  us  to  answer." 

"However,"  said  Rene,  "the  other  day,  when  he 
turned  his  head  away,  I  squirted  six  drops  of  ink  on  his 
grey  trousers." 

Below  them,  on  the  winding  ribbon  of  the  main  road, 
the  battalion  advanced.  And  the  sight  was  terribly  im- 
pressive: in  this  peaceful  Alsatian  valley,  on  this  road 
where  forty  years  ago  French  infantrymen  in  red  trousers 
had  gone  along  singing,  As-tu  vu  la  casquette,  la  cas- 
quette  .  .  ."  moved  this  Prussian  battalion,  whose  hymn 
rose  to  the  crest  of  the  momitains:  "Z/ie6'  Vaterland, 
magst  ruhig  sein  ..." 

"Monsieur,"  asked  Jean  Bohler,  the  tears  glistening 
in  his  eyes,  "  if  you  were  an  Alsatian,  would  you  stay 
here  or  would  you  go?.  .  .  To  stay  means  marching 
with  those  men.  ...  To  go  means  forsaking  Alsace  for 
ever.  .  .  .  What  would  you  do?  " 

"  I  shall  stay,"  declared  Weiss.  "  Those  who  go  away 
leave  empty  places.     We  know  who  fills  them." 

They  began  to  dispute.     One  cried: 

"Those  who  stay  are  the  finest;  they  suffer  more." 

"  No,  those  who  go  do,  for  they  leave  everything  they 
love." 

"  They  are  cowards  to  go." 

"  Cowards !  Say  that  again !  .  .  .  The  cowards  are 
those  who  put  up  with  insults  in  the  German  barracks 
for  two  years  without  a  word.  At  last  they  must  begin 
to  despise  themselves." 


.  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  93 

"  It  is  right  to  go." 

"It  is  right  to  stay." 

Jean  Bohler  repeated  his  question  obstinately: 

"  Well,  Monsieur,  would  you  go?  " 

What  could  Reymond  say?  The  goatherd  was  play- 
ing a  tune  on  his  flute.  The  children  came  dancing  and 
singing  out  of  school.  A  spring  sweetness  filled  the  air. 
On  the  mountain  path  five  ,boys,  aged  from  thirteen  to 
fourteen,  wrangled,  one  crying  "  Go,"  the  other  "  Stay." 
And  they  were  talking  of  their  little  fatherland.  Yes, 
what  should  he  say?     Deeply  moved,  Reymond  replied; 

"  Dear  boys,  you  are  all  fine  fellows." 

Another  of  these  walks  remained  graven  in  Reymond's 
memory.  One  morning  Weiss  had  said  in  a  mysterious 
tone : 

"  Now's  the  time.     They  are  in  flower." 

"What  are?" 

"The  jonquils,  of  course.  I  know  the  places.  This 
afternoon  my  wife  expects  you  and  your  pupils  to  tea. 
At  a  quarter-past  four  I  shall  come  in  from  the  ofl&ce  and 
carry  you  off.     Not  a  word;  it's  all  settled." 

This  tea  was  of  a  kind  to  be  expected  at  the  Weiss's 
house:  almond  Kougelhopfs,  cakes  of  various  kinds  with 
cream  or  kirsch,  butter,  jam,  tea.  Passing  round  the 
table  continually,  Madame  Weiss  filled  cups,  cut  slices, 
offered  and  served  without  paying  the  slightest  attention 
to  refusals. 

"  I  don't  like  people  to  pick  like  birds.  .  .  .  You  must 


94  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

have  this  piece,  Suzanne,  after  giving  lessons  for  two 
hours." 

"  What !  "  protested  Reymond,  "  are  you  going  to  com- 
pete with  me.  Mademoiselle?  " 

"Yes,  indeed.  And  quite  clandestinely.  Not  very 
high-class  literature,  however.  I  am  just  teaching  a 
little  French  to  three  young  girls  who  are  going  out  to 
service.  And  then  I  have  my  evening  classes:  eleven 
pupils.  .  .  .  One  must  do  what  one  can.  ...  I  have 
an  idea  that  if  I  have  not  been  troubled  hitherto  I  owe 
it  to  Justice  Doring.  Ever  since  the  famous  accident, 
he  bows  almost  to  the  ground  when  we  meet.  I  re- 
spond, and  even  smile  a  little.  It's  quite  worth 
while,  if  it  enables  me  to  teach  Fr-ench  to  eleven  little 
girls." 

"  Perhaps  it  was  Doring  who  sent  you  those  anony- 
mous verses,"  said  Charles,  and  he  declaimed : 

"  Tu  as  perdu  la  clef  de  ton  cceur, 
Tu  ne  peux  la  trouver, 
Et  cela  te  fait  peur.  .  .  . 
Je  vais  te  rassurer! 
La  clef  est  dans  mon  cceur 
Pour  toujours  en  siirete." 

[Thou  hast  lost  the  key  of  thine  heart;  thou  canst  not  find  it, 
and  this  alarms  thee.  Have  no  fear;  the  key  is  in  my  heart,  and 
safe  for  ever.] 

"  Perhaps  it  was  you.  Monsieur,"  said  Rene. 
Reymond  blushed. 
"Little  simpleton!  " 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  95 

"  Excellent  Doring !  "  said  Suzanne,  "  collector  of  lost 
objects!  ...  I  shall  be  obliged  to  ask  him  for  my  heart 
again.     It  will  be  touching." 

"You  would  be  magnificent  as  Madame  Doring," 
continued  Charles.  "Take  my  arm.  We  will  march 
along  the  square  of  Friedensbach  on  the  Emperor's  birth- 
day, you  in  a  Reformkleid,  I  in  a  frock-coat,  with  my 
moustaches  turned  up  to  the  stars." 

The  company  laughed  till  they  cried  at  their  evolu- 
tions. They  then  proceeded  to  imitate  the  young  Lieu- 
tenant who  walks  about  with  his  eyeglass  in  his  eye,  his 
feline  graces  when  he  passes  a  lady,  the  condescending 
thrust  of  his  jaw  to  inferiors,  his  unfathomable  bows  to 
the  Colonel. 

"  Enough  of  this,"  said  Suzanne  at  last.  "  We  see  too 
much  of  them  out  of  doors;  we  don't  want  to  bring  them 
in  here." 

She  sat  down  at  the  piano.  Humming  the  words,  she 
played :  Ma  terre  est  la  plus  belle  et  pourtant  qu^elle  est 
triste.^ 

A  Saint  Odile  smiled  prettily  from  the  light  back- 
ground of  a  piece  of  tapestry.  The  walls  were  covered 
with  souvenirs  of  happier  times,  the  records  of  an  entire 
past.  The  song  continued  its  lament.  To  be  twenty,  to 
be  made  for  happiness,  to  live  in  this  moribund  land, 
and  to  feel  that  one  could  not  live  elsewhere. 

The  sudden  irruption  of  Weiss  put  an  end  to  this 
momentary  melancholy.     In  five  minutes  they  were  all 

1  "Fair  is  my  land,  and  yet  how  sad!  " 


96  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

on  the  mountain  path.  The  boys  ran  on  in  front.  Weiss 
began  to  explain  his  passion  in  lyric  terms: 

"  The  Vosges !  ...  If  you  want  to  know  the  virtues 
of  a  woman,  you  must  question  the  man  of  her  heart. 
Well,  I  am  the  faithful  lover  of  the  Vosges.  I  once  went 
to  the  Oberland.  A  delightful  journey.  My  wife, 
leather  trunks,  big  hotels.  .  .  .  But  more  Schwobs  even 
than  here.  And  such  peaks  and  heights!  They  crushed 
me.  They  are  too  grandiose  for  poor  Victor  Weiss.  So, 
when  I  came  back,  the  Vosges  said  to  me :  *  It  serves 
you  right,  Weiss;  you  should  have  stayed  here.'  And 
now  I  stay." 

Then,  without  giving  Reymond  time  to  defend  the 
Oberland,  he  asked: 

"  What  do  you  think  of  Alsace?  Do  you  feel  that 
we  are  standing  firm?  " 

Reymond  hesitated  a  little. 

"  I  hardly  know  how  to  answer  you.  I  know  so  few 
people  beyond  my  pupils.  The  middle  classes,  of  course, 
are  sound,  firm  as  a  rock.  As  to  the  workmen,  I  brush 
by  them;  I  don't  know  them." 

"  The  reason  I  ask  you  the  question  is  that  I  have  just 
been  reading  an  article  which  has  enraged  me  by  its 
superficiality,  one  of  those  articles  written  by  a  journalist 
after  spending  a  few  hours  in  one  of  our  towns,  where  he 
has  conversed  with  a  couple  of  Germans  he  has  taken 
for  native  Alsatians.  When  people  deal  with  Alsace 
they  should  explain  everything,  or  they  should  not  meddle 
with  her  affairs.     Do  you  suppose  this  gentleman  knows 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  97 

that  after  the  annexation  two  hundred  thousand  Alsatians 
gave  up  their  homes?  And  that  every  year  since  then 
from  twenty  to  thirty  thousand  others,  disgusted  by 
absurd  and  harassing  regulations,  have  followed  them? 
That  we  have  been  bleeding  ourselves  white  for  love 
of  France?  Where  are  our  intellectuals?  In  Paris. 
Where  are  our  ardent  spirits?  In  the  Foreign  Legion. 
Now,  I  maintain  that  both  are  equally  necessary  to  the 
life  of  a  country.  And  in  place  of  these  four  or  five 
hundred  thousand  Alsatians,  the  flower  of  the  nation, 
a  like  number  of  Germans  have  settled  upon  our  soil  as 
upon  a  colony.  These  are  the  conditions  under  which 
we,  thus  weakened  and  deprived  of  our  natural  leaders, 
have  to  struggle  against  a  people  of  sixty-five  million 
souls,  who  crush  us  with  the  whole  weight  of  their  army, 
their  administration,  and  their  educational  system." 

Weiss  bowed  his  tall  figure,  sighing  as  if  he  felt  the 
whole  weight  of  the  burden  upon  his  shoulders.  He  con- 
tinued: 

"  You  must  not  expect  verbal  heroism  from  us.  No ! 
the  drama  is  a  hidden  one,  buried  like  our  dead  who  fell 
in  the  war.  We  have  had  the  heroism  of  the  heart, 
the  fidelity  that  makes  no  sound.  How  many  have  they 
succeeded  in  '  rallying '  after  forty  years  of  persecution? 
A  few  dozens.  How  many  Alsatians  have  become  Ger- 
man officers?  They  may  be  counted  on  the  fingers  of 
one  hand.  Just  calculate  what  our  profits  would  have 
been  had  we  laid  our  hand  in  the  German  hand.  How 
many  offices!     How  many  decorations  I     What  a  future 


98  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

for  our  industry?  What  a  lift  for  a  little  province  like 
ours  to  be  accepted  as  a  member  of  the  mightiest  nation 
in  the  world.  We  answered  No!  They  threatened  us. 
No!  They  harassed  us.  No!  Do  not  misunderstand 
me.  There  were  no  disturbances,  no  cries,  no  ostenta- 
tious hysteria.  You  might  live  among  us  for  years  with- 
out witnessing  any  overt  manifestation.  It  is  our  hearts 
which  cry  No!  And  that  is  enough.  No  army  in  the 
world  can  break  down  that  barrier.  What  I  tell  you  is 
the  truth,  Monsieur  Reymond.  ...  Oh!  there  have  been 
defections.  We  are  human.  But  in  spite  of  everything, 
I,  who  know  so  many  stories,  and  how  many  are  the  lives 
that  have  been  shattered  and  overthrown,  I  am  proud  — 
yes,  proud  —  of  being  an  Alsatian!  Come.  You  were 
at  Friedensbach  on  the  Emperor's  birthday.  Well,  save 
Maus,  the  exception  which  proves  the  rule  —  and  his 
mother  is  a  German  —  how  many  red,  white,  and  black 
flags  did  you  see  on  the  house-fronts  of  thoroughbred 
Alsatians?  Answer  me.  How  many  of  these  flags 
among  our  own  people?  Not  a  single  one.  After  nearly 
forty  years,  it's  magnificent.  Remember  that  the  master 
is  among  us,  the  master  with  the  mailed  fist,  the  owner 
of  the  cash-box  and  everything  in  it.  How  human  it 
is  to  flatter  the  master,  to  try  to  get  a  smile,  an  approving 
word  from  him.     But  there  was  not  one!     Not  one!  " 

The  flood-gates  were  opened.  Reymond  was  tactful 
enough  not  to  interrupt. 

"Shall  I  explain  our  attitude?  It  is  so  simple.  I 
have  already  touched  on  it  with  you  once  or  twice.    We 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  99 

have  been  used  to  liberty  for  centuries.  And  we  have 
also  been  used  to  invasion.  Ever  since  Arminius,  only 
think!  Our  love  of  liberty  gives  us  strength  to  await 
the  end  of  the  storm.  We  bow  to  it.  We  draw  our 
heads  down  between  our  shoulders.  And  always,  always, 
deliverance  has  come  to  us,  often  contrary  to  all  expec- 
tations. You  know  our  history.  ...  In  the  Middle 
Ages,  our  ten  free  cities;  our  alliance  with  the  Swiss 
cantons  against  the  marauding  nobles.  .  .  .  This  is  why 
there  are  so  many  ruins  on  the  Vosges  peaks!  .  .  .  On 
the  other  side  of  the  Rhine  they  still  have  their  squires 
and  their  Junkers,  all  the  folks  whose  backs  we  broke 
four  or  five  centuries  ago.  .  .  .  Ah!  we  are  the  sons  of 
an  ancient  civilization;  we  cannot  be  persuaded  by  kicks 
on  our  behinds!  We  shall  triumph  once  more,  if  only 
our  young  people  are  left  to  us,  and  we  have  leaders. 
And  we  have  them!  We  shall  have  them!  The  day  of 
groans  and  jeremiads  is  past.  When  we  have  ten  Dr. 
Buchers  in  Alsace  —  nay,  five  even  —  we  shall  be  assim- 
ilating the  Schwobs.  It  is  beginning  already.  .  .  . 
The  grandfathers  were  beaten,  stunned,  terrorized.  They 
closed  their  doors.  The  sons  expected  everything  from 
France,  instead  of  expecting  everything  from  themselves. 
Seeing  that  nothing  came,  they  in  their  turn  closed  doors 
and  windows.  And  now  we  have  the  grandsons,  the  third 
generation.  They  play  football,  they  box.  They  un- 
dergo their  term  of  service  in  the  German  barracks 
valiantly,  for  love  of  Alsace.  After  that,  they  cannot 
be  expelled  from  their  country.    They  are  at  home. 


100  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

They  have  rendered  to  the  Empire  all  that  the  Empire 
can  expect  from  a  man.  But  do  you  think  they  find  an 
ideal  in  those  barracks?  any  food  for  the  soul?  No. 
All  they  find  is  disgust,  melancholy.  Then  they  reflect. 
They  have  it  out  with  themselves.  They  turn  to  the  past 
and  question  it.  And  tradition  makes  its  power  felt. 
They  realize  what  they  lack.  Liberty!  Liberty!  There 
are  hundreds  of  these  young  men  now  at  Metz,  Strasburg, 
Colmar,  Mulhouse,  in  our  little  towns,  often  in  the  vil- 
lages, everywhere!  .  .  .  Alsace  is  seeking  and  finding 
herself  —  a  young,  strong  Alsace,  matured  by  the  suffer- 
ings of  two  generations.     Count  upon  her !  .  .  .  Listen !  " 

From  the  French  summit  of  the  Drumont,  a  bugle  — 
some  patrol  of  Chasseurs  had  arrived  there  —  sent  its 
shrill  appeal  to  Alsace  in  clear,  high  notes  which  rang 
through  the  stillness  of  the  valley.  Weiss  had  stopped 
short,  rooted  to  the  ground,  quivering,  his  finger  on  his 
lips. 

"  Listen !  How  gay  it  is,  how  frank,  how  free !  Ah ! 
tradition!  " 

His  eye  ranged  over  the  heights,  plunged  into  the 
valley  flecked  with  points  of  silver  by  the  wandering 
river,  searched  the  depths  of  the  forest  as  if  in  quest  of 
that  Liberty  which  one  almost  expected  to  see,  in  human 
form,  resuscitated  and  rejuvenated,  gliding  along  the 
slopes. 

They  resumed  their  walk  in  silence.  And  suddenly, 
quite  close  to  them  lay  the  jonquil  fields,  like  broad 
shafts  of  light,  a  golden  laughter  on  the  banks  of  the 


THE  HEART  OF  AtSACE  101 

bounding  stream.  Bending  over  the  yellow  petals, 
Weiss  gathered  them  eagerly,  as  if  these  jonquils  were 
the  liberty  he  dreamt  of.  Presently  a  goat  and  two 
white  kids  came  dancing  among  the  gold.  Weiss,  touched 
to  the  heart,  opened  his  arms.  Bounding  on  its  stiff 
legs,  with  adorable  awkwardness,  its  pretty  trustful  eyes 
fixed  upon  him,  the  kid  ran  to  the  man  who  was  calling 
it.  Giants  are  very  susceptible  to  the  appeal  of  weak- 
ness. Weiss  picked  it  up  tenderly  and  kissed  it  on  its 
pink  muzzle. 

The  boys  came  up,  in  company  with  the  owner  of  the 
goat,  an  old  man  from  a  neighbouring  village. 

"  Good-day !  "  said  Weiss  to  the  old  man.  "  Did  you 
hear  the  bugle?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Well  .  .  .?" 

"Well,  what!" 

The  old  man  looked  cunningly  at  the  strangers.  Driv- 
ing goat  and  kids  before  him,  he  answered: 

"  A  bugle  is  a  bugle." 

Weiss  was  irritated. 

"You  see  how  they  have  terrorized  these  poor  old 
people.  They  will  say  nothing.  Everything  is  hidden, 
kept  dark.     We  have  to  look  to  you  young  ones,  you  see." 

The  boys  laughed  gaily.  Then  Weiss,  sniflSng  his 
bouquet  of  jonquils  as  if  to  draw  strength  from  the 
perfume  born  of  the  soil,  uttered  a  mountaineer's  cry, 
the  echo  of  which  mingled  with  the  lively  echo  of  the 
bugle. 


VI 

A  CLASS  of  thirty  to  forty  pupils;  to  the  teacher  they 
are  an  almost  anonymous  crowd.  There  is  a  cur- 
riculum to  be  carried  out,  marks  to  be  given,  discipline. 
Teacher  and  pupils  meet  and  part.  The  years  pass  and 
soon  make  them  strangers. 

Two  pupils.  The  teacher  lives  with  them.  He  be- 
comes their  friend.  He  divines  their  thoughts,  their 
reticences.  He  gives  lessons,  but  he  also  converses  and 
discusses  with  them,  seated  on  the  corner  of  the  table. 
In  this  way  ties  are  formed  that  last  a  lifetime,  and  it 
is  a  joy  to  meet  again  later  those  to  whom  one  has 
given  the  best  of  oneself. 

The  delightful  schoolroom,  so  well  lighted,  so  attrac- 
tive, with  its  map,  its  globe,  its  blackboard,  its  glazed 
bookcase,  its  two  desks,  its  statuette  of  Joan  of  Arc,  its 
collections  of  insects  and  of  stones,  its  engravings  rep- 
resenting the  bombardment  of  Strasburg,  a  street  in  the 
old  town  of  Colmar,  the  castle  of  St.  Ulrich.  .  .  .  Jean 
and  Rene  are  seated.  Beside  them  is  the  big  Quicherat 
dictionary.  And  the  tutor  is  dictating  the  text  of  the 
Latin  exercise:  "Socrates  exhorted  all  those  who 
aspired  to  an  office  to  ask  themselves  if  they  were  ca- 
pable of  filling  it.  He  was  fond  of  saying:  it  is  really 
disgraceful  that  a  man  who  desires  to  lead  an  army 
should  neglect  to  learn  how  to  do  so,  when  he  might. 

102 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  103 

And  he  would  be  more  deserving  of  punishment  from  his 
fellow-citizens  than  another  who  should  undertake  to 
make  statues  without  having  learnt  the  art  of  the  sculp- 
tor.    It  is  not  sufficient  to  walk  about  in  one's  town.  .  .  ." 

The  tutor  broke  off:     "  Take  care;  there  is  no  displace- 
ment:    Ambulat  in  horto. 

"  M'sieur,"  remarked  Rene  artlessly,  "  when  I  walk  in 
the  garden,  I  displace  myself." 

"True;  but  you  don't  go  out  of  the  garden.  .  .  .  Let 
us  go  on.  .  .  ." 

The  pens  scratch  the  paper.  Jean  and  Rene  bend  their 
heads  over  the  blank  sheets.  They  have  an  hour's 
work  before  them.  Reymond  opens  the  Journal  d' Alsace- 
Lorraine,  which  the  old  servant  has  just  brought  in. 
There  has  been  a  lively  debate  in  Parliament  at  Strasburg: 
"  You  will  end  by  telling  us,"  said  a  deputy  to  the  mem- 
bers of  the  Government,  "  that  in  Paradise  the  angels  have 
red,  white,  and  black  wings.  But  this  will  not  encourage 
us  to  go  there."  Said  another:  "You  are  always  talk- 
ing of  the  French  white-wash,  the  French  varnish.  But 
there  are  indelible  varnishes.  Are  you  sure  that  yours 
is  one  of  this  sort?  "  So,  while  Jean  and  Rene  are  put- 
ting Socrates'  counsels  to  his  contemporaries  into  faulty 
Latin,  men  are  doing  battle  round  an  idea  over  there. 
One  party  is  saying:  "We  have  power."  The  other  is 
replying:     "We  have  memory." 

"M'sieur,  m'sieur,"  asks  Rene  in  a  plaintive  voice, 
"what  use  is  Latin?     It  is  a  dead  language." 
"And  French?" 


104  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

"  French  is  a  living  language." 

"  Yes,  but  it  is  derived  from  Latin.  To  know  French 
thoroughly,  one  has  to  know  Latin." 

Rene  submits.     But  presently  he  returns  to  the  charge. 

"  M'sieur,  you  dictated :  '  Carthagenian,  it  is  disgrace- 
ful to  lie.'  Did  the  Carthagenians  lie  as  much  as  all 
that?  " 

"  They  were  habitual  liars." 

"Ah!" 

Jean,  exasperated,  exclaimed :  "  Monsieur,  please  tell 
him  to  be  quiet.     It  is  impossible  to  work." 

The  window  is  open.  The  lilacs  planted  along  the 
wall  send  out  their  fragrance.  Beyond  is  the  courtyard 
of  the  factory,  the  handcarts  pushed  along  by  men  with 
grimy  faces.  One  breath  of  air  wafts  the  scent  of  the 
lilacs.  Another  brings  the  dull  thud  of  long-armed  steel 
pistons,  together  with  a  smell  of  rancid  oil. 

The  tutor  looks  out  of  the  window.  In  the  courtyard 
really  interesting  things  are  going  on.  The  coachman 
Hintermann  is  washing  the  carriage,  as  he  does  every 
morning  at  the  same  hour,  throwing  pails  of  water  to 
wash  the  seats,  the  naves,  the  axles,  the  springs,  and  the 
hood  of  the  carriage.  A  ring  of  smoke  rises  from  his 
pipe.  He  scratches  his  head.  Now  he  is  cleaning  Jean's 
bicycle  with  a  skilful  hand. 

"  M'sieur,  does  quin  always  need  the  subjunctive?  " 

And  now  comes  the  gardener,  basket  on  arm,  a  tall 
dry  fellow,  his  left  eye  half  closed.  From  one  of  the 
workroom  windows,  the  girls  blow  him  a  kiss  on  their 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  105 

fingers.  The  gardener  responds  by  closing  his  left  eye 
completely.  He  walks  with  a  heavy  step  to  the  door  of 
his  master's  kitchen,  to  hand  in  radishes  and  salads. 
Hintermann  unchains  the  two  dogs  that  they  may  stretch 
their  legs  and  get  an  appetite  for  their  soup  at  ten  o'clock. 
The  animals  gallop  round  madly,  and  at  last  return  to 
their  kennels.  .  .  .  The  exercise  is  finished. 

The   next   lesson   is   geography:   the   Rhine   and  the 
Rhone. 

Reymond  waxes  eloquent.  He  dwells  on  general  ideas. 
He  shows  the  two  streams,  gushing  from  the  hollow  of 
a  rock  a  few  paces  one  from  another,  mingling  the 
murmur  of  their  voices  for  a  moment,  swelling  with  the 
waters  of  a  hundred  other  streams,  roaring  in  the  depths 
of  valleys,  running  in  the  plains,  becoming  mighty  rivers, 
the  grey  waters  of  which  are  lost  in  blue  lakes.  There 
is  a  period  of  repose,  of  disengagement.  Suddenly  the 
two  rivers  flee  from  each  other  at  right  angles.  The 
Rhone  leaps  towards  the  land  of  the  sun,  the  Rhine  to- 
wards the  land  of  mists,  one  greeted  by  the  smile  of 
Mireille,  the  other  by  the  melancholy  song  of  the  Lorelei. 
.  .  .  Mulberry-trees,  cypresses,  pines,  and  olive-trees  .  .  . 
birches  and  firs  .  .  .  the  Palace  of  the  Popes,  Saint- 
Trophyme  .  .  .  the  ruins  of  the  Burgs,  the  pierced  spires 
of  Gothic  cathedrals;  the  tambourines  of  the  Cigales,  the 
two  Homers  of  Serignan  and  Maillane,  the  daughters  of 
Aries  with  their  graceful  caps,  Tartarin  of  Tarascon,  the 
stones  of  the  Gran  with  their  guardians  and  their  black 
bulls.  .  .  .  Spires,  Worms,  Mayence,  and  Bonn,  the  black 


106  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

country  of  the  Ruhr,  the  horizon  intersected  by  tall 
chimneys,  the  innumerable  iron  bridges,  the  clank  of 
hammers  and  the  glow  of  furnaces.  Here,  the  rivers 
rushing  in  torrents  from  the  bare  Alpine  slopes,  dragging 
their  waters  over  beds  of  white  pebbles;  there,  slow 
rivers  among  fat  meadows,  the  highways  of  ships;  the 
Mediterranean,  its  rippling  waters  smiling  and  dancing; 
...  the  North  Sea,  with  its  low  coast  lines,  its  grey  skies, 
its  greenish  billows. 

"Monsieur,"  interrupted  the  philosophic  Jean,  "you 
talk  of  geographical  fatality;  you  say  that  a  man  is 
moulded  by  his  surroundings.  But  don't  you  think  that 
the  will  of  man  often  gets  the  better  of  these  surround- 
ings? For  instance,  the  Germans  say  to  us:  'You  Ive 
on  the  banks  of  the  Rhine,  which  is  a  German  river, 
so  I  want  you,  I  take  you,  I  keep  you.'  Whereas  the 
French  say  to  the  Corsicans,  the  Bretons,  the  Flemings: 
'We  are  equals,  we  are  brethren;  why  should  we  not 
keep  together?  '  Don't  you  think  that  this  is  the  secret 
of  France's  greatness?  Her  humanity  breaks  down  geo- 
graphical aflSnities;  she  wins  the  affection  of  Alsace-Lor- 
raine; she  creates  wills  which  are  stronger  than  geo- 
graphical fatality." 

"All  theories!"  cried  Rene.  "It's  a  question,  not 
of  geographical  affinities,  but  of  aeroplanes  and  guns. 
The  one  who  has  most  of  these  beats  the  other." 

These  speeches  are  characteristic:  Jean  is  a  meditative 
spirit,  attracted  by  general  ideas,  always  deep  in  his 
books,  eager  to  rationalize  his  sentiments  and  to  sentimen- 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  107 

talize  his  reasons;  Rene  is  the  good-hearted  boy,  mat- 
ter of  fact  and  downright,  ready  for  frolic  and  fisticuffs. 

But  the  lessons  are  not  always  given  in  the  schoolroom. 
Sometimes,  in  the  afternoon,  Virgil  is  taken  up  on  the 
hillside.  The  ants  are  running  about  along  the  rugged 
trunks.  A  squirrel,  seated  on  a  high  branch,  strokes 
his  muzzle  with  his  forepaws.  The  woodman's  ax  rings 
out  from  the  depths  of  the  forest.  .  .  .  Silver-leaved 
poplars,  beeches  and  birches,  flowering  pear  and  cherry- 
trees;  the  river  rippling  over  its  stony  bed;  yellow  butter- 
flies dancing  in  pairs,  wing  touching  wing;  the  hum  of 
insects  like  a  bell  quivering  in  the  sky;  the  two  oxen, 
coming  and  going  with  bowed  heads  along  a  field;  the 
flash  of  the  ploughshare  as  il:  cuts  its  furrow:  it  is  the 
very  cadence  of  Virgil's  verses,  the  setting  which  gives 
actuality  to  the  alternate  speeches  of  the  shepherds. 

Poor  Meliboeus  driving  his  flock  before  him  on  the  way 
to  exile!     Tityrus  pities  him. 

"Meliboeus,  you  may  spend  yet  another  night  here, 
and  rest  upon  this  bed  of  branches.  I  have  ripe  fruits, 
cooked  chestnuts,  bowls  full  of  thick  cream.  It  is  late. 
See,  the  smoke  rises  from  the  roofs  of  the  village;  the 
shadow  that  creeps  down  the  mountains  lengthens  on  the 
plain." 

Jean  looks  at  the  valley,  at  his  home,  at  all  the  paths 
he  has  so  often  trodden.  Then  his  eyes  fix  themselves 
on  a  distant  point. 

"Meliboeus  is  like  us.  Monsieur.  .  .  .  We  shall  soon 
have  to  leave  our  valley,  and  for  ever.    But  we  shall  not 


108  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

be  so  happy  as  Virgil's  shepherd,  for  we  shall  not  drive 
our  flocks  before  us.  The  police  will  see  to  it  that  no 
one  shall  say  to  us:  '  You  may  spend  yet  another  night 
here.' " 

Jean  knows  that  poetry  is  eternal.  He  takes  that 
which  comes  from  distant  centuries,  and  clothes  the 
thought  which  haunts  him  therein.  It  was  a  poignant 
moment:  a  lad  of  sixteen  recognizing  his  own  story  in 
one  of  Virgil's  Bucolics.  Reymond  looked  at  his  pupil. 
They  talked  a  little.  They  paraphrased  the  speeches  of 
the  shepherds.  They  imagined  them  in  their  own  sur- 
roundings, at  the  corner  of  the  hedge,  under  the  rays  of 
the  setting  sun. 

"  A  little  history,  and  then  we  will  go  down." 

Reymond  speaks  of  Joan  or  Arc,  of  the  village  of 
Domremy,  of  the  voices  which  counselled  and  ordered. 

"Voices!  .  .  .  What  does  that  mean?  "  asked  Rene. 

Whereupon  his  brother  interrupted: 

"  Monsieur,  please  don't  explain.  It  is  so  much  more 
beautiful  just  as  it  is.  .  .  .  Voices.  .  .  .  Every  one  can 
imagine  what  he  likes." 

Reymond  describes  the  battles;  the  anointing  of 
Charles  at  Reims;  the  reverses;  Jeanne  before  her  judges. 

"  Do  you  think  it  was  right  to  leave  your  home  without 
the  permission  of  your  father  and  mother?  .  .  .  Ought 
we  not  to  honour  father  and  mother?  .  .  ,  They  have 
forgiven  me.  .  .  .  Did  you  think  it  was  no  sin  to  behave 
in  this  way?  .  .  .  God  commanded  it.  If  I  had  had  a 
hundred  fathers  and  a  hundred  mothers,  I  should  have 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  109 

gone.  .  .  .  Does  God  hate  the  English?  ...  I  know 
nothing  as  to  God's  love  or  hatred  for  the  English,  but  I 
know  that  they  will  be  driven  from  France,  all  save  those 
who  will  perish  here." 

"  It  is  a  beautiful  story,"  said  Rene.  "  But  do  you 
think.  Monsieur,  that  it  all  really  happened  as  we  are 
told?  " 

Jean  shrugged  his  shoulders.     Then  he  asked: 

"  Monsieur,  do  you  think  there  could  ever  be  a  second 
Joan  of  Arc?  " 

"Ah!  who  can  tell?" 

"Why  not?  Not  quite  the  same  of  course  —  but 
with  the  same  strong  will,  the  same  faith  in  victory." 

They  walked  downwards  towards  the  valley.  Jean 
went  on  talking,  as  if  to  himself: 

"  I  cannot  say  how  I  love  Alsace.  I  think  of  it  all 
the  time.  Alsace!  It  is  a  fine  country,  the  finest  in 
the  world.  And  I  am  sure  there  will  be  another  Joan 
of  Arc." 

On  the  main  road  they  parted.  When  they  got  home, 
Rene  threw  himself  upon  his  statistics:  French  army, 
German  army.  He  knows  the  names  of  all  the  battle- 
ships, their  tonnage,  the  capacity  of  the  airships,  the  feats 
of  the  aeroplanes.  Madame  Bohler  bends  over  the  fig- 
ures and  numbers. 

"  This  is  a  positive  mania,  my  child.  Instead  of  pre- 
paring your  lessons  for  tomorrow,  you  waste  your  time 
adding  up  tons  and  cannon.  Later,  when  you  are  at 
Saint-Cyr.  .  .  .  But  now!  " 


110  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

"Mother,  what  is  the  use  of  all  those  stories  they 
tell  us  about  the  mother  of  the  Gracchi!  They  are  not 
worth  one  good  aeroplane." 

"  Really,  you  are  absurd !  "     Madame  Bohler  smiled. 

"What  do  you  say,  Jean?  " 

"  I  have  finished  my  lessons.  Shall  we  have  a  little 
music?  " 

Monsieur  Bohler,  who  had  just  come  in  from  the 
factory,  threw  back  the  curtain  which  divided  the  smok- 
ing-room from  the  drawing-room.  He  listened  to  the 
song  of  the  'cello,  artless  as  childhood,  but  suddenly  be- 
coming agitated:  halting  efforts,  storm,  calm,  gentle 
memories  which  lull  the  soul.  Seated  in  an  arm-chair, 
he  saw  reflected  in  the  mirror,  as  in  a  dream,  the  move- 
ment of  the  bow,  the  fingers  flying  over  the  ivory  keys. 
Another  year,  and  they,  the  parents,  would  be  alone. 
Longer,  more  silent  evenings,  letters  at  intervals.  Think- 
ing of  these  things.  Monsieur  Bohler  let  his  pipe  go  out. 
.  .  .  The  instruments  became  silent. 

"  Monsieur  Reymond,"  said  Kummel  after  one  of  his 
lessons,  "  I  have  a  proposal  to  make  to  you.  Monsieur 
Maus,  the  merchant,  an  Alsatian,  a  most  worthy  man, 
of  the  highest  intelligence,  has  commissioned  me  to  ask 
you  whether  you  would  be  so  kind  as  to  give  some  French 
lessons  to  his  son,  a  lad  {galopin,  don't  you  say?)  of 
thirteen,  very  industrious  and  very  studious.  Perhaps 
you  would  take  me  also,  for  even  in  an  elementary 
lesson  there  is  always  something  to  learn.    Ah !  Monsieur 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  111 

Reymond !  As  a  Swiss,  as  the  representative  of  a  neutral 
country,  you  might  collaborate  with  us  in  our  work  of 
conciliation  between  immigrants  and  natives,  as  you  say. 
You  are,  of  course,  outside  parties.  Yes,  indeed,  you 
might  work  to  fill  up  that  ditch  of  pride  which  certain 
Alsatians  have  dug  between  them  and  us,  their  brethren 
in  race  and  language.  That  is  the  part  a  true  Swiss 
should  play.  The  truth  is  that  we  German  intellectuals 
are  cut  off  from  all  agreeable  relations  in  this  country 
which  is  our  country.  And  yet  it  would  all  be  so  simple 
if  we  met,  explained  things,  cried:  'You  are  our  lost 
brethren;  we  love  you.'  The  future  of  Alsace  would  then 
be  truly  magnificent,  enviable,  whereas  now  her  child- 
ish pride  and  sulkiness  plunge  her  into  retrogradism.  .  .  . 
Is  that  the  right  word?  .  .  .  You  see  the  plan;  you 
give  lessons  to  the  Bohler  boys;  I  give  them  lessons; 
you  give  some  to  the  son  of  Monsieur  Maus,  a  man  of 
an  old  Alsatian  stock,  who  has  succeeded  in  breaking 
down  the  bondage  of  prejudice  and  has  come  to  us  with 
outstretched  hand  and  open  heart.  ...  In  this  way, 
gradually,  you  will  bring  about  a  reconciliation  between 
sons  of  the  same  nation.  You  will  leave  Alsace  with  joy 
in  your  heart,  and  every  one  will  be  ready  to  certify: 
*  Monsieur  Reymond  is  a  worthy  man.  As  far  as  he  was 
able,  he  strengthened  national  sentiment  in  the  country 
where  he  earned  his  bread.' " 

Kummel  had  thrown  himself  back  in  his  arm-chair. 
His  grey  eyes  were  fixed  suggestively  on  Reymond. 
What  was  the  tutor  to  say? 


112  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

"Monsieur  Kummel,  I  feel  much  honoured  by  your 
confidence  in  me.  .  .  .  Please  thank  Monsieur  Maus 
from  me,  but  I  am  very  busy.  .  .  ." 

"But  in  the  evening  .  .  ." 

"  In  the  evening  especially.  I  work  on  my  own  ac- 
count then.     I  am  preparing  a  thesis." 

"  Well,  couldn't  you  sometimes  take  the  Maus  boy  with 
the  Bohlers?  " 

"  It  would  be  difficult.  We  work  chiefly  at  Greek  and 
Latin.  .  .  .  Our  program  is  drawn  up  very  precisely. 
Really,  I  can't  think  how  it  could  be  managed." 

"Try  to  find  a  way,  Monsieur  Reymond.  Just  think 
what  a  magnificent  task  is  offered  to  you.     Try." 

"Really,  it  is  quite  impossible." 

"Think,  think." 

"What  impudence!  "  thought  Reymond,  when  he  was 
left  in  peace.  "This  Kummel  is  artful  and  audacious 
to  an  unimaginable  degree.  He  is  no  half-hearted  agent 
of  Deutschtum.  I  must  tell  Monsieur  Bohler,  just  to 
hear  what  he  will  say.     It  will  be  interesting." 

Next  day,  as  Reymond  was  lunching  with  the  Bohlers, 
he  described  Kummel's  proposition  in  jesting  terms. 
Monsieur  Bohler  frowned.  He  said  nothing.  Shortly 
afterwards  he  suggested  a  stroll  in  the  garden.  At  first 
he  and  Reymond  walked  along  the  fine  gravel  of  the  paths 
in  silence.  The  dogs  ran  in  front  of  their  master,  gam- 
bolling and  biting  at  each  other.  Monsieur  Bohler 
smoked  his  pipe  in  short  puffs.     Suddenly  he  began : 

"Monsieur  Reymond,  I  am  not  given  to  talking,  as 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  113 

• 

you  know.  Words,  words  are  things  the  winds  carry 
away.  But  I  must  just  explain  to  you,  once  for  all,  more 
fully  than  I  have  been  able  to  do  incidentally,  the  reasons 
for  our  attitude.  .  .  .  Now  as  to  these  lessons  that  have 
been  offered  to  you,  I  don't  want  you  to  refuse  them 
simply  to  please  me.  Higher  motives  are  involved.  As 
the  tutor  and  friend  of  my  sons,  you  make  common  cause 
with  us  up  to  a  certain  point;  you  undertake  to  observe 
a  certain  reticence  and  even  abstention  in  respect  of  cer- 
tain persons.  It  is  a  matter  of  tact,  and  more  especially 
of  feeling,  as,  indeed,  you  have  perfectly  understood,  for 
which  I  thank  you. 

"What  is  the  question,  in  fact?  We  have  been  an- 
nexed against  our  will,  on  the  pretext  that  in  the  seven- 
teenth century  Germany  ...  I  am  wrong,  for  in  the 
first  place  there  was  no  Germany  in  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury. And  since  that  time  respect  for  right,  and  a  cer- 
tain human  decency  which  forbids  men  to  treat  peoples 
as  flocks  of  cattle,  have  permeated  our  minds.  Accord- 
ingly, we  care  little  whether  we  are  of  German  stock  or 
not.  That  is  not  the  question.  This  is  the  conclusion  of 
the  matter:  we  know  to  which  side  our  instinct,  our  heart, 
our  will  incline  us.     All  the  rest  is  mere  verbiage. 

"But  then  they  change  their  tactics  and  say:  'But 
the  annexation  is  good  business  for  you!  (with  what 
scorn  Monsieur  Bohler  snapped  out  the  words!)  What 
advantages  it  has  given  you!  '  The  advantages  of  an- 
nexation! You  feel  what  an  insult  such  words  are! 
Does  a  man  forsake  his  family  because  it  would  profit 


114  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

him?  Abominable  thought!  Does  one  go  over  to  the 
conqueror  because  he  is  the  conqueror?  Defeat  binds 
hearts  more  closely  together  than  victory.  This  the 
Germans  will  never  understand. 

"They  say  —  for  we  have  been  arguing  for  thirty- 
eight  years:  '  Two  centuries  of  union  with  France  have 
perverted  your  real  nature,  have  led  you  astray.  To 
purge  you  of  these  pernicious  influences,  so  foreign  to 
the  German  genius,  come  to  the  Germany  of  the  scientists, 
thinkers,  and  poets  .  .  .  Schiller,  Goethe,  Kant,  and  so 
many  others.'  Pardon  me.  We  love  those  men,  we  read 
them.  But  where  is  their  Germany?  The  Germany  we 
see,  the  living  Germany,  worships  force,  respects  the 
colossal,  cultivates  pedantry.  Human  emotion,  the  joy 
of  liberty,  all  that  makes  up  the  value  of  life,  is  else- 
where; we  know  very  well  where.  .  .  .  Der  deutsche 
Gedanke  befliigelt  das  deutsche  Geschiitz  (German 
thought  gives  wings  to  German  cannon).  I  read  these 
words  only  yesterday  in  one  of  their  papers.  We  cannot 
find  anything  akin  to  us  in  this  formula.  And  we  an- 
swer ;  '  We  know  but  one  thing,  that  once  we  were 
happy,  and  now  we  are  wretched.' 

"  They  persist.  They  reel  us  off  formulae  by  the  gross, 
all  bearing  the  stamp  of  historical  and  scientific  fact. 
In  the  press,  in  the  Universities,  in  the  schools,  by  the 
lips  of  officials  of  every  kind,  they  cry:  'Erudition, 
organization,  discipline,  the  collective  soul,  the  omnip- 
otence of  the  State.'  We  reply:  'Respect  for  human 
personality,  right  of  peoples  to  self-determination,  dis- 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  115 

cipline  —  yes,  but  in  a  framework  of  liberty.'  In  the  last 
resort,  despairing  of  convincing  us,  they  throw  us  under 
their  steam-roller.  Well,  as  we  lie  flat  under  it,  we  still 
cry:  'Handed  over  by  a  duly  signed  treaty,  we  respect 
its  clauses.  Here  are  our  bodies  and  our  purses.  As 
to  the  thoughts  of  our  hearts,  they  are  our  own.' 

"And  note  this.  Monsieur  Reymond,  that  when  we 
defend  ourselves  we  also  defend  you  —  you  Swiss,  who 
speak  German,  Italian,  and  French.  If  there  are  no 
reasons  of  right  and  of  sentiment  to  protect  your  little 
country,  you  are  lost.  It  is  only  a  question  of  time. 
When  we  proclaim  that  it  is  the  desire  for  solidarity 
which  constitutes  a  nation,  and  only  that;  when  we  strug- 
gle desperately  against  the  might  which  aspires  to  force 
us  to  our  knees,  we  constitute  a  dyke  for  your  liberties. 
If  we  had  yielded,  if  they  had  been  able  to  digest  us 
without  discomfort,  in  all  probability  our  conquerors 
would  be  gulping  down  a  second  and  a  third  meal. 
Yes,  you  may  thank  Alsace  .  .  .   ! 

"  You  understand  the  meaning,  the  bearing  of  our 
struggle.  Its  value  is  not  merely  national.  It  has  a 
human  value.  The  consequence  is  that  we,  the  manu- 
facturers, who  have  become  the  leaders  of  the  nation  now 
that  all  the  higher  educational  posts  and  all  the  adminis- 
tration are  in  the  hands  of  the  Germans,  are  obliged  to 
blow  up  the  bridges,  to  avoid  compromise,  to  build  up 
the  walls  which  protect  Alsatian  hearths.  Narrow, 
intransigeant,  petty,  we  are  at  times.  We  must  be! 
We  have  to  be!     We  appreciate  the  good  qualities  of 


116  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

all  these  Richter,  Lehrer,  Inspektoren,  Kreisdirektoren 
and  Oberforstassessoren,  but  we  live  apart  from  tliem 
The  hatch  is  opened,  and  through  it  we  pay  our  taxes 
our  gun-licences;  we  project  the  necessary  words.  The 
hatch  is  closed.  .  .  .  Professors,  officers,  non-commis 
sioned  officers,  schoolmasters,  officials,  speak,  order, 
teach,  catechize,  insinuate,  punish,  reward.  .  .  .  All  right 
Continue.     My  silence  is  my  reply. 

"  When  I  travel  on  the  other  side  of  the  Rhine  I  ad 
mire  .  .  .  nearly  everything.  These  people  are  very  re 
markable.  They  have  qualities  of  the  highest  order 
There  are  moments  when  you  are  dazzled  by  their  vital 
ity.  .  .  .  But  when  I  return  home,  I  am  silent.  You  do 
not  pay  compliments  to  the  burglar  who  has  broken  into 
your  house. 

"  And  you  must  not  think,  on  the  other  hand,  that  we 
admire  everything  that  is  said  and  done  in  France,  blindly 
and  implicitly.  We  deplore  the  scandals  and  disputes 
of  which  the  newspapers  are  full,  the  drunkenness,  the 
dwindling  population,  the  liberty  which  degenerates  into 
licence;  and  the  swarms  of  orators  who  chatter  while  the 
hammer  falls  unceasingly  on  the  German  anvil  to  forge 
the  German  arms  and  German  mastery.  Those  who 
travel,  those  who  really  know  France,  know  that  behind 
this  curtain  of  the  theatre  or  the  cafe-concert  are  the  real 
people,  all  the  wonderful  qualities  of  the  race.  But  a 
great  many  Alsatians,  impressed  by  all  these  ugly 
rumours,  are  saddened,  and  feel  themselves  condemned 
to  a  useless  resistance  which  will  lead  to  suicide.     We 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  117 

are  too  much  forgotten  in  France.  They  do  not  realize 
there  all  that  we  suffer  in  order  to  remain  faithful. 
They  have  so  many  other  irons  in  the  fire!  .  .  .  Oblivion 
would  be  terrible.  Are  there  not  some  who  would  even 
go  farther?  We  hear  of  positive  blasphemies  as  the  re- 
sult of  an  enquiry  set  on  foot  by  a  certain  review.  Ah! 
our  enemies  quote  them  again  and  again,  and  thrust  them 
under  our  noses  with  sardonic  laughter.  Words  such  as 
these  have  disgraced  the  pen  of  a  French  writer:  'In 
exchange  for  the  forgotten  territories  I  would  not  give 
either  the  little  finger  of  my  right  hand,  which  sustains 
my  hand  when  I  write,  nor  the  little  finger  of  my  left 
hand,  with  which  I  flick  off  the  ash  of  my  cigarette.' 
Even  if  this  be  nothing  but  a  peevish  outburst,  it  is  base. 

"  But  even  though  such  things  be,  France  is  always 
France.  Her  genius  and  her  traditions  endure.  It  is 
she  who  put  into  our  hearts  that  which  keeps  us  erect 
before  the  foe.  In  spite  of  those  of  her  children  —  a 
mere  handful  —  who  insult  us,  we  love  her,  and  shall 
always  love  her.  No  one  and  nothing  can  change  our 
motto :  '  French  if  possible,  Alsatian  always,  German 
never!  ' 

"  In  conclusion :  When  Kummel  speaks  to  you  of  that 
Maus,  of  that  man  who  sold  himself  to  get  an  army  con- 
tract, of  that  thrice  despicable  creature,  get  behind  the 
wall.  If  Kummel  spies  on  us,  it  is  his  trade  and  func- 
tion. He  comes  from  over  there.  If  he  teaches  his 
language  to  my  sons  at  the  rate  of  three  marks  an  hour, 
if  by  speeches  bearing  the  impress  of  the  Pan-Germanic 


118  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

want  of  tact  he  disgusts  them  with  the  abominable  ideas 
he  hawks  about,  so  much  the  better.  But  to  allow  him 
to  take  one  step  further  would  be  to  compromise.  Once 
more,  the  wall." 

Monsieur  Bohler  took  out  his  watch. 

"Two  o'clock!  .  .  .  This  is  what  comes  of  speechi- 
fying!    This  is  the  last  time  I  will  be  caught  at  it." 

Followed  by  the  barking  dogs,  he  went  off  hurriedly. 

Jean  and  Rene  came  up. 

"  What  was  father  saying  to  you?  He  was  gesticulat- 
ing, and  he  never  does  that." 

"  He  was  explaining  to  me  that  there  is  really  and  truly 
a  second  Joan  of  Arc,  who  has  given  herself  up  wholly 
to  her  idea;  that  the  enemy  holds  her  captive,  but  that 
she  defies  them  without  ever  asking  whether  her  quiet 
confidence  may  not  cost  her  her  life." 

Jean  looked  his  tutor  steadily  in  the  eyes. 

"A  second  Joan  of  Arc?  " 

"  Certainly.     And  you  know  her  well." 

"And  what  is  her  name?  " 

"Alsace." 


VII 


*/^N  Sunday,"  Weiss  had  said  to  Reymond,  "I  am 
V-/  going  to  take  my  daughter  to  the  other  side  of 
the  mountain  to  her  grandfather's  at  Milchpach,  where 
she  is  to  pay  a  short  visit.  .  .  .  My  father  is  eighty.  .  .  . 
For  nearly  fifty  years  he  managed  a  little  cotton-mill, 
founded  by  himself.  Since  my  mother's  death  he  has 
lived  alone  in  our  modest  old  home  with  Catherine,  the 
housekeeper,  who  is  as  old  as  Time!  We  arrive  at  nine 
in  the  morning.  There  is  bread,  coffee,  milk,  butter, 
honey,  as  much  as  you  like.  We  talk  to  the  grandfather, 
and  walk  about  the  garden.  .  .  .  After  this  a  two  hours' 
walk  through  the  woods  to  Reichburg,  where  we  shall 
taste  the  nectar  of  Alsace.  Every  year  my  friend  Klug 
invites  the  notables  of  Reichburg,  a  few  friends  from  out- 
side, and  his  fifteen  or  twenty  vine-dressers.  From 
twelve  to  five  we  feast.  Afterwards  we  play  a  game  of 
skittles  to  aid  digestion.  Our  Alsatian  meals  are  things 
to  see,  or,  better  still,  to  eat.  Droll  stories  are  told  in 
good  dialect;  we  brace  ourselves;  we  take  courage  till 
we  meet  again  the  following  year.  ...  It  is  really  good 
to  spend  a  few  hours  by  ourselves.  And  you  are  coming 
with  us?  " 

This  is  the  Alsatian's  formula  of  invitation. 

They  started  at  five  in  the  morning.  What  freshness! 
119 


120  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

What  peace  brooding  over  the  meadows!  The  little 
caravan  climbed  the  first  slopes  by  the  winding  path: 
Suzanne  Weiss  in  a  short  skirt,  her  complexion  blooming 
under  a  broad-brimmed  white  hat;  her  father  with  his 
vast  gestures,  his  picturesque,  abundant  speech;  Reymond 
more  alive,  perhaps,  to  the  presence  of  the  pretty  Alsatian 
than  to  the  beauty  of  the  surroundings. 

"  Yes,"  repeated  Weiss,  "  Dictionary  extols  the  race 
which  shows  itself  too  much.  I  am  going  to  reveal  to 
you  the  race  which  hides  itself,  the  splendid  race  of  our 
country." 

"Dictionary?  .  .  ."  asked  Reymond. 

"Kummel,  of  course.  They  each  have  a  nickname. 
The  White  Rat  is  Taubenspeck,  the  Ogre  is  his  colleagues, 
Arminius  is  the  chief  Customs  officer,  April  Smiles  is 
Kraut,  and  Dutchman  (i.  e.,  the  Dutch  cheese)  is  Justice 
Doring,  my  daughter's  admirer.  Ah!  we  Alsatians  are 
malicious!  " 

"Poor  people!  I  pity  them,"  said  Suzanne.  "We 
are  really  too  much  given  to  mockery." 

"  You  see.  Monsieur  Reymond,"  went  on  Weiss,  "  you 
see!  She  pities  Doring!  When  a  woman  pities  a  man 
she  ends  by  loving  him;  and  when  she  loves  him,  she 
is  ready  to  marry  him.  It's  a  pleasant  prospect  for  my 
old  age.  .  .  .  We  are  a  thousand  metres  high  here.  We 
follow  this  crest,  and  then  we  go  down  into  the  valley. 
Look!  look!  " 

The  mountain  shadows  were  fleeing  before  the  morning 
brightness.     They  saw  the  labyrinth  of  the  valleys,  the 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  121 

villages  lying  flat  upon  the  verdure,  the  white  line  of  the 
highways;  beyond,  the  plain  with  its  symmetrical  squares 
of  cultivated  ground,  the  ribbon  of  the  Rhine,  the  Black 
Forest;  Germany,  Alsace,  and  France.  It  was  so  beauti- 
ful that  Reymond  could  not  suppress  a  regret. 

"*0h!  what  fools  we  mortals  be!'  All  these  bar- 
riers, all  these  threatening  fists!  Nature  is  more  intelli- 
gent. Flowers  bloom  everywhere,  and  birds,  heedless  of 
Custom-house  and  passports,  wing  their  flight  and  coo  in 
France  as  they  have  cooed  in  Germany." 

"We  are  quite  ready  to  coo,"  cried  Weiss.  "But 
there  are  birds  which  cannot  coo  in  a  cage.  They  prefer 
liberty.  Every  one  to  his  taste.  When  our  Schwob 
gentry  .  .  ." 

"  Papa,"  intreated  Suzanne,  "  it  is  so  fine !  Leave  the 
wretched  Schwobs  alone  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour." 

"  You  are  right,  my  child.  For  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
I  promise  you." 

Weiss  whistled  a  song.  There  are  some  vows  which 
it  is  very  diificult  to  keep.  A  little  board  nailed  to  a 
tree  instructed  the  passer-by:  Halt!  Schone  Aussicht! 
This  order  set  Weiss  off  again. 

"Isn't  that  like  them?  'Stop!  Admire  the  view!' 
And  just  see  how  the  tourists  in  green  hats  have  obeyed 
the  mandate!  Look  at  these  empty  tins,  these  egg-shells, 
these  greasy  Strassburger  Posts!  What  a  shower  of 
Kolossals  and  W under schons  must  have  fallen  here!  " 

Planted  in  front  of  the  notice,  Weiss  twirled  his  mous- 
tache upward  and  threw  out  his  chest,  imitating  th^ 


122  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

gestures  of  some  official  during  an  attack  of  Nature- 
worship. 

"  You  can't  do  it,"  objected  Suzanne.  "  There  is 
something  too  fanciful  in  your  beard,  in  your  tie,  in  the 
brim  of  your  hat." 

"  Halt!  Schone  Aussicht!  "  repeated  Weiss  in  ecstatic 
tones.  ..."  And  now  let  us  get  on.  This  time  I  prom- 
ise you  to  talk  of  other  things  for  a  quarter  of  an 
hour." 

An  impossible  pledge!  The  pink  sandstone  walls  and 
lace-like  battlements  of  a  ruined  fortress  were  outlined 
against  the  blue.  They  approached  it.  On  every  tree 
there  were  coloured  arrows  indicating  the  direction. 
More  placards:  Restored  in  1903,  and  the  name  of  the 
architect,  one  of  His  Majesty's  privy  councillors.  At 
the  base  of  the  tower  was  inscribed  in  red  letters :  Sixty- 
three  steps,  1126  metres  above  the  sea-level.  A  remark- 
able panorama. 

Weiss  worked  himself  up  again. 

"  They  can't  leave  us  alone  for  a  minute.  They  have 
no  respect  for  intimate  thought.  They  even  organize 
our  ruins!  It  is  just  the  same  in  their  schools.  For 
every  composition  there  is  a  scheme.  Everything  that 
is  addded  in  the  way  of  personal  sentiment  is  scored  out. 
Pupils  must  not  admire  this  passage.  They  must  scream 
like  amorous  peacocks  over  that.  .  .  .  Yes,  Monsieur 
Reymond,  look  at  this  ruin.  Somewhere  you  will  be 
sure  to  find  a  note  setting  forth  the  cost  of  the  restoration, 
the  names  of  illustrious  visitors,  a  table  of  direction, 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  123 

baskets  for  waste-paper,  the  depth  of  the  wells  in  metres 
and  centimetres,  bones  numbered  and  labelled,  the  whole 
history  of  these  walls,  together  with  the  assertion  that 
they  were  built  in  German  times,  destroyed  by  the  French, 
and  restored  in  all  their  splendour  by  the  Germans! 
I  am  wrong  to  joke  about  it.  The  men  who  do  these 
things  are  formidable.  .  .  .  The  day  when  their  leaders 
cry  '  Up !  '  they  will  rise  to  a  man,  and  crush  everything 
on  their  way.  Ah!  Let  us  turn  into  the  woods  and 
meet  fair,  free  Nature !  " 

The  others  followed  him  breathlessly.  This  senti- 
mental giant  bent  the  young  laburnums  to  bury  his  face 
in  their  gold,  kissed  the  broom-bushes,  ran  after  the  but- 
terflies, threw  his  hat  up  towards  the  sun  with  wild  cries. 
Drawn  forward  by  an  enthusiastic  vigour,  his  jacket  over 
his  arm,  his  waistcoat  swelling,  his  shirt  blown  out  by 
the  wind,  his  cane  in  the  air,  he  hurried  on  with  long 
strides.     And  suddenly  swinging  round,  he  asked: 

"What  are  you  saying  to  my  daughter,  Reymond? 
Eh?     I  will  not  give  her  to  any  one  but  an  Alsatian." 

The  young  people  blushed.  But  Weiss  was  already 
absorbed  in  a  new  interest.  Kneeling  against  a  tree- 
trunk,  he  imitated  the  call  of  the  cuckoo  to  perfection. 
Presently  a  beautiful  bird  appeared,  fluttering  uneasily 
from  branch  to  branch. 

"  It  is  the  female.  You  are  sold,  my  beauty.  Weiss 
is  only  a  man.  Be  off  and  look  for  the  handsome  un- 
known." 

This  bearded  giant  was  indefatigable.     Bending  down 


124  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

he  pointed  to  what  looked  like  coffee-berries  on  the  moss, 
"Look!  they  shine;  they  are  quite  fresh.  And  all  in 
line,  five  centimetres  one  from  another.  .  .  .  That  hare 
was  running  fast!  .  .  ."  The  next  moment  the  beard 
was  presented  to  the  astonished  beaks  of  a  nest  of  young 
woodpeckers  in  the  hollow  of  a  tree. 

Suzanne  said  to  Reymond: 

"  That  father  of  mine  I  It  is  impossible  to  be  dull 
when  he  is  there.  I  understand  his  joy  so  well.  After 
living  in  constraint  and  suppressing  one's  feelings,  a 
reaction  takes  place,  and  one  feels  impelled  to  sing,  to 
talk  to  the  trees,  to  elaborate  fancies.  I  wonder  if  you 
can  put  yourself  in  our  place.  You  are  so  happy  in 
Switzerland." 

"  Perhaps  too  happy.  I  sometimes  envy  the  Alsatians. 
You  suffer,  but  you  live  trebly." 

"  Doubly  would  be  enough  for  us  sometimes.  And 
yet  you  are  right.  When  I  give  my  French  lessons  to 
the  young  girls  of  Friedensbach,  when  I  destroy  the  frail 
scaffoldings  of  Herr  Kummel,  I  can  assure  you  that  I 
feel  a  satisfaction  I  could  not  have  in  any  other  country. 
The  Germans  watch  the  soldiers  of  the  future.  They 
neglect  us.  We  are  only  young  girls.  That  is  true. 
But  while  our  brothers  are  in  barracks  and  our  fathers 
shut  up  in  factories  with  their  cares,  we,  together  with 
our  mothers,  work  at  the  perpetuation  of  the  Alsatian 
soul.  And  when  our  brothers  come  back  after  their  one 
year  or  two  years,  more  or  less  Prussianized,  thanks  to 
us,  in  a  month,  this  has  worn  off.  .  .  .  And  so  many  of 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  125 

our  young  men  go  into  exile!     What  would  become  of 
our  country  without  us?  " 

Reymond  ventured  to  put  a  question: 
"  You  are  not  thinking  of  leaving  Alsace?  " 
"  I  ?  Certainly  not.  I  am  quite  ready  to  die  an  old 
maid  at  Friedensbach.  I  shall  be  a  kind  of  aunt  to  all 
sorts  of  excellent  people.  Like  Penelope,  I  will  destroy 
every  evening,  thread  by  thread,  the  web  the  Kummels 
of  the  future  weave  during  the  day.  An  old  maid  who 
knows  her  mind  is  a  very  valuable  person!  She  trots 
about  with  her  embroidered  handbag!  No  one  looks 
upon  her  with  suspicion.  And  she  takes  advantage  of 
this!  " 

Suzanne  laughed  gaily.  .  .  .  Reymond  would  perhaps 
have  preferred  a  less  uncompromising  attitude  —  vague 
sentiment,  discreet  emotion.  Suddenly  he  was  conscious 
of  a  certain  mournfulness  in  the  sunshine  of  this  morning 
and  its  Sunday  bells,  and  even  in  the  discs  of  light  that 
danced  upon  the  moss. 

They  went  down  towards  the  valley,  passing  saw-mills 
and  villages;  a  churchyard  blue  with  blossoming  sage; 
on  the  paths,  men  and  women  were  wending  their  way  to 
Mass;  all  one  saw  of  them  was  their  broad-brimmed  felt 
hats  and  their  black  or  white  head-dresses,  nodding  above 
the  tall  grasses. 

"  Look,"  said  Weiss,  "  in  this  farmyard  there  is  a  hen 
with  eighteen  chicks!  Perhaps  the  Emperor  is  the  god- 
father of  the  last?  And  there,  behind  that  plum-tree, 
two  kids  and  their  mother.  .  .  .  Three  kids!     The  third 


126  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

is  sucking,  kneeling  in  the  grass.  .  .  .  And  on  this  bench, 
in  front  of  the  house,  four  children!  .  .  .  All  this  young 
life  keeps  the  heart  fresh!  Flowers,  animals,  children; 
I  love  them  all!  ...  And  all  those  people  on  their 
way  to  church:  the  good  priest  hurrying  along  —  the 
boys  and  girls  dancing  around  the  crucifix  in  the  grave- 
yard, and  these  houses,  these  hills,  and  the  sun  over  and 
in  everything  —  all  this  is  Alsace,  the  old,  the  good,  the 
excellent,  the  faithful  country!  Thank  God,  there  is  not 
a  Schwob  to  be  seen  on  the  horizon!  How  we  ought  to 
miss  that  crowning  charm!  .  .  .  Listen,  listen  to  the  song 
of  those  children.  It  is  real. patois:  'Alsace  is  a  very 
fair  country,  we  know  it.  We  hold  it  firmly  by  the 
bridle,  and  we  will  not  let  it  go.'  Bravo,  children! 
Ah!  I  wish  I  could  grow  young  again,  cut  off  this  beard, 
where  some  white  hairs  are  beginning  to  make  their  ap- 
pearance, put  on  the  good  little  face  of  former  years,  so 
round  and  artless,  and  dance  in  the  sun  on  Sundays  round 
the  crucifix  in  the  grave-yard.  .  .  .  Reymond,  you  see 
Alsace!  ...  To  think  that  they  have  taken  it  from  us! 
.  .  .  Let  us  go  to  my  father's  house!  " 

A  fine  old  man  was  waiting  at  his  garden-gate,  broad- 
shouldered,  broad-browed,  with  a  big  beard  of  white  and 
yellow. 

"  Good-morning,  papa?     How  goes  it?  " 
"  Good  morning,  my  son.     All  well  with  you?  .  .  . 
Good-morning,  Suzele.     How  pretty  you  are  growing! 
I  scarcely  dare  to  kiss  you.  .  .  .  Monsieur   Reymond, 
you  are  very  welcome  here." 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  127 

He  waved  his  hand  hospitably  towards  the  low  house 
and  the  garden.  Victor  Weiss  had  already  gone  to  greet 
Catherine  by  the  fountain. 

"Catherine!  my  good  old  Catherine!  .  .  .  What,  not 
married  yet?  I  have  an  old  fellow  at  Friedensbach  for 
you.  ...  He  is  sixty-eight  and  hale  and  hearty.  A 
word,  and  the  business  can  be  settled.  I  will  marry  you 
and  my  daughter  on  the  same  day." 

Catherine  laughed,  her  arms  akimbo,  her  cap  awry 
over  one  ear.  Thrusting  out  her  chin  towards  Reymond, 
she  whispered: 

"Is  he  the  man?" 

"  No,  no !  He  is  a  Swiss.  .  .  .  Oh !  of  course  he  is 
infinitely  superior  to  Kraut  and  Kummel,  but  I  must 
have  a  suitor  who  has  been  drinking  our  Alsatian  kirsch 
for  at  least  twenty  years." 

"Breakfast!  Breakfast!  "  cried  the  grandfather. 
The  breakfast-table  was  a  masterpiece,  with  its  capa- 
cious milk-jug,  its  portly  coflfee-pot,  its  honeycomb,  its 
loaf,  its  preserve,  its  basket  of  strawberries.  Two  doves 
cooing  in  a  cage  filled  the  house  with  their  amorous 
melancholy. 

"  How  delightful  it  all  is,  grandpapa !  "  said  Suzanne. 
"How  happy  we  two  will  be  all  alone  together  for  a 
week!  How  I  am  looking  forward  to  working  in  the 
garden  with  Catherine!  "  said  Suzanne. 

"Yes,  my  Suzele,"  said  the  grandfather;  "this  is  your 
place,  by  me.  Monsieur  Reymond  .  .  .  Victor.  And 
don't   let   us   forget  that   it  is   Sunday  today.     I   will 


128  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

ask  a  blessing  from  on  high.  My  God,  bless  this  food 
which  Thou  givest  us  abundantly,  and  grant  that  we 
may  use  it  with  joy  and  thankfulness,  and  to  Thy 
glory." 

They  attacked  the  bread,  the  milk,  the  coffee,  the  honey, 
the  preserve,  the  strawberries.  Reymond  did  not  talk 
much.  He  looked  about,  he  listened  to  these  Alsatians, 
three  generations  which  had  remained  faithful  to  the 
speech  of  the  province :  the  patois,  harsh,  hoarse,  like  the 
sound  of  pebbles  whirled  along  by  a  torrent,  and  break- 
ing into  this  suddenly,  French  of  the  Alsatian  variety 
with  its  leisurely,  good-humoured  rhythms.  The  grand- 
father gave  all  the  Milchpach  news. 

"Kramm  died  on  Wednesday.  He  was  buried  on 
Friday.  .  .  .  Old  Salome  is  ill.  .  .  .  Grot  the  poacher 
has  put  a  charge  of  small  shot  into  his  left  shoulder. 
Moscher's  son  is  going  to  marry  a  Colmar  waitress. 
There  is  a  great  to-do  in  the  family.  And  there  is  a  new 
chemist  at  the  factory,  a  very  agreeable  young  man,  a 
well-bred  fellow.  One  of  us,  of  course.  He  might  per- 
haps do  for  Suzele.  ...  I  must  invite  him  to  come  here 
one  of  these  days." 

"  Grandpapa !  Do  you  really  think  it  is  essential  one 
should  marry?  " 

"  Yes,  when  one  is  a  pretty  girl  like  you,  with  a  com- 
plexion like  pink  heather.  Certainly.  And  you  must 
have  ten  children  hanging  to  your  skirts." 

"And  what  would  you  say  if  I  told  you  some  fine 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  129 

morning  that  I  was  going  to  be  a  nurse  in  the  hospital 
at  Mulhouse?  " 

Weiss  was  alarmed. 

"  Never !  There  are  plenty  of  old  maids  in  the  world 
for  that  business." 

"Never?" 

Father  and  daughter,  both  self-willed  creatures,  looked 
each  other  in  the  eyes  challengingly. 

"  Peace,  peace,"  counselled  the  grandfather.  "  My 
chemist  will  drive  out  these  modern  ideas." 

Taking  advantage  of  a  pause,  the  doves  began  to  coo 
again.  Roses  peeped  in  at  the  window.  Catherine  ap- 
peared to  clear  the  table. 

"  To  think  there  was  a  time,  my  good  Catherine,"  said 
Weiss  with  mischief  in  his  eyes,  "  when  you  used  to  carry 
me  about  in  your  arms.  I  shall  soon  have  my  revenge. 
When  you  become  childish,  I  will  carry  you  about  and 
take  care  of  you." 

The  old  servant  laughed,  her  hands  on  her  stomach. 
Her  faithful  face,  clean  and  shining,  neatly  framed  in 
grey  plaits,  was  radiant.     She  wiped  her  eyes. 

"  Always  full  of  fun.  Monsieur  Victor." 

"  Father,"  said  Weiss,  "  your  clock  simply  gallops. 
In  half  an  hour  we  must  be  off  to  Reichburg,  as  I  wrote. 
Next  Sunday,  when  I  come  to  fetch  Suzele,  we  will  spend 
the  whole  day  together.  Stay!  I  have  an  idea,  father. 
Show  Monsieur  Reymond  the  cupboard  in  the  loft.  I 
want  him  to  understand  our  country." 


130  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

"  The  cupboard  in  the  loft?  "  repeated  Reymond. 

"  Follow  us.  .  .  ." 

There  were  piles  of  wood,  a  corn-bin,  some  tools.  Be- 
tween the  beams  of  the  roof  spiders  were  sleeping,  hang- 
ing at  the  end  of  a  thread.  Roused  from  their  slumbers, 
they  hurried  off  to  their  retreats,  their  slender  legs  work- 
ing hurriedly.  Two  dormer-windows  opened  on  to  the 
blue  of  the  Vosges.  In  the  penumbra,  the  old  man 
looked  like  a  ghost.  Only  his  forehead  and  his  beard 
were  visible.  Slowly,  opening  the  door  of  a  secret  place 
hidden  in  the  thickness  of  the  wall,  he  took  out  a  flag  on  a 
gilded  standard. 

"  The  flag  you  see  here  floated  over  this  house  to  cele- 
brate the  fall  of  Sebastopol.  How  many  times  I  hoisted 
it!  And  for  the  last  forty  years  it  has  been  languishing 
here  .  .  .  waiting,  waiting!  " 

Weiss  ran  to  his  father,  seized  the  flag,  strode  to  one 
of  the  windows,  and  waved  the  tricolour  frantically  over 
the  sunlit  roof.  For  a  moment  there  was  an  additional 
flash  of  light  in  the  peaceful  garden,  like  the  reflection  of 
a  flame,  like  a  bit  of  sky  falling  among  the  flowers. 
"  Jesus  Maria !  "  Standing  between  two  rose-trees,  old 
Catherine  clasped  her  hands. 

"  Victor !     Victor !  "  cried  the  grandfather. 

Returning  to  his  daughter,  Weiss  wrapped  the  flag 
about  her.  For  a  moment,  with  dilated  eyes,  beating 
hearts,  and  constricted  throats,  they  thought  that  their 
dream  had  come  down  to  Alsatian  earth. 

The  grandfather  was  the  first  to  recover. 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  131 

"Enough,  enough!  it  is  too  cruel.  .  .  .  But  you  will 
see  it,  perhaps." 

He  rolled  the  flag  reverently  round  the  standard,  and 
replaced  it. 

"And  here  is  the  mother's  spinning-wheel.  How  it 
used  to  sing  to  us,  night  after  night,  by  the  big  stove! 
.  .  .  And  now  it  also  is  silent,  like  her  who  used  to  wind 
its  thread.  .  .  .  What  a  mournful  thing  life  is!  ...  Do 
you  remember,  Victor,  how  she  used  to  recite  Beau 
papillon  bleu  to  you?  Ah!  no  more  of  that.  And  here 
are  the  epaulettes  of  my  uncle,  one  of  Napoleon  the 
Great's  officers,  and  his  Saint  Helena  medal.  .  .  .  And 
here  are  the  family  papers,  proclamations  of  the  Kings 
of  France  to  their  subjects,  and  notices  issued  by  the 
Mayor,  all  signed  Weiss  —  four  generations  of  Mayors 
—  all  with  the  French  stamp.  .  .  .  The  kepi  of  my 
brother,  a  Colonel  of  light  infantry,  killed  at  Magenta. 
How  many  times  I  have  shown  my  herbarium  of  memories 
to  my  grandchildren.  They  will  show  them  to  their 
sons.     Tradition  is  the  food  of  the  soul." 

When  Weiss  and  Reymond  left  the  old  house,  they  saw 
the  grandfather,  leaning  on  his  grand-daughter,  and  old 
Catherine,  waving  farewell  to  them  from  the  threshold 
for  some  time. 

"We  might  be  starting  for  America!"  said  Weiss. 
"  Well,  Reymond,  you  have  now  seen  the  sanctuary  of  an 
Alsatian  family.  You  will  find  such  sanctuaries  every- 
where, in  the  home  of  the  peasant  as  in  that  of  the  work- 
man :  a  medal,  a  cockade,  a  kepi,  the  certificate  of  the  sons 


132  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

who  died  in  the  Foreign  Legion.  They  are  our  lightning- 
conductors  against  the  German  thunderbolts.  And  now 
let  us  go  to  see  another  bit  of  Alsace." 

Weiss  turned  round  on  the  top  of  the  hill.  He  showed 
the  gardens  of  Milchpach  at  his  feet. 

"  Look  at  those  flowers.  ...  In  spite  of  their  decrees, 
they  cannot  prevent  Nature  from  embroidering  our 
flag  every  summer  on  each  garden,  each  cornfield,  each 
meadow.  .  .  .  Red,  white,  and  blue!  .  .  .  Nature  does 
not  like  black!  " 

Vine-clad  hillsides.  Overlooking  the  plain  is  Reich- 
burg,  a  village  where  those  who  were  laid  to  rest  some 
four  or  five  centuries  ago  will  rise  when  the  trumpet 
sounds,  walk  unsurprised  through  the  familiar  street, 
push  open  the  well-known  door,  and  find  the  house  just 
as  they  left  it  when  they  were  carried  out  feet  foremost. 
An  encircling  wall  with  battlements,  machicolations, 
watch-towers,  posterns,  and  drawbridges;  within  this  en- 
closure, a  curious  jumble  of  roofs  full  of  dormer-win- 
dows, weathercocks,  facades  streaked  with  painted  beams, 
pulleys  with  hanging  ropes  awaiting  their  load  of  dry 
vine-branches,  and  paved  streets  winding  crookedly,  now 
almost  choked  by  the  protuberant  houses,  now  widening 
into  misshapen  squares.  A  nest  of  sticks  and  twigs,  of 
course,  on  the  top  of  a  gable,  where  the  stork,  in  a  black- 
and-white  waistcoat,  claps  his  beak;  and  rusty  signs, 
balconies  with  balustrades,  tiny  windows,  a  thousand 
whimsies  in  wood  and  stone,  useless  staircases,  a  flight  of 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  133 

steps  fit  for  a  mansion  leading  up  to  a  shanty,  and  over- 
hanging upper  storeys  so  close  that  lovers  can  kiss  each 
other  from  opposite  windows  by  leaning  out  a  little. 

Reymond  was  enchanted.     Said  Weiss; 

"  Do  you  think  that  the  descendants  of  the  burghers 
who  built  Reichburg  and  declaimed  in  their  underground 
cellars  against  the  robber  barons  are  ripe  for  slavery? 
,  .  .  But  let  us  make  haste.  I  hear  a  sound  of  forks 
already." 

Under  the  archway  leading  to  King's  house,  Reymond 
halted  in  amazement.  .  .  .  Was  there  ever  such  a  house? 
Three  irregular  facades,  mullioned  windows,  gargoyles 
with  great  gaping  mouths;  an  external  staircase,  con- 
tinued in  a  turret,  the  well  with  its  bucket  and  chain; 
round  this  well,  falling  on  the  pavement  from  above, 
patches  of  sunshine  jagged  by  the  inequalities  of  the  roof, 
and  slashed  by  the  cornices  —  the  whole  baked  by  sum- 
mer heats,  worn  by  the  rain,  invaded  by  green  mosses. 
And  at  the  moment,  the  lively  sounds  and  gay  colours  of 
a  kermesse  in  this  courtyard,  tables  spread  for  a  feast,  on 
which  bottles  glittered,  loaves  were  piled,  soup-tureens 
were  smoking;  women  ran  about  fetching  provisions,  and 
strapping  fellows  with  florid  faces  and  abrupt  gestures 
smoked  and  spat  and  laughed  in  stentorian  tones. 

Hereupon  Klug  hurried  forward,  bearded  and  brawny, 
holding  out  two  mighty  hands  to  the  new  arrivals.  Oaths 
were  rapped  out  around  them,  like  blows  on  the  table. 

"  Good-day,  Weiss.  Good-day,  Monsieur.  You  are 
heartily  welcome.     Are  you  hungry?     Are  you  thirsty? 


134  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

.  .  .  That's  right!  No  introductions  here!  We  make 
friends  over  the  roast.  Gentlemen!  (his  voice  would 
have  carried  to  a  whole  brigade)  Babele  has  waved  her 
apron.  It  is  the  signal  for  the  attack.  Be  seated,  all 
of  you." 

There  was  a  shout  of  approval.  The  landowners  sat 
down  first;  Guhlmann,  his  huge  pink  chin  resting  on  his 
mauve  neck-tie;  Krebs,  whose  liquid  eye  probed  the 
depths  of  the  kitchen;  Ammerberger,  his  hands  devoutly 
clasped  over  his  stomach;  and  then  Weiss,  and  Reymond, 
and  several  others.  After  these,  the  vine-dressers  hur- 
ried to  their  places.  There  was  a  clatter  of  iron-shod 
boots,  and  then  an  alignment  of  white  beards,  grey 
beards,  fair  moustaches  like  rays  of  sunshine  on  the 
ruddy  faces.  And  all  looked  at  the  master  without 
servility,  after  the  manner  of  men  united  in  a  vigorous 
fraternity. 

All  bent  silently  over  the  menu  with  its  border  of  naked 
children  at  play.  It  ran  as  follows:  Potage  a  la  reine, 
Asperges.  Truites  au  bleu,  sauce  hollandaise.  Pommes 
nature.  Vol  au  vent  Toulouse.  Choucroute  garnie 
a  rAlsacienne,  Gigot  de  chevreiul.  Salade,  Buis- 
sons  d'ecrevisses,  Bombe.  Biscuit.  Fromages  assortis. 
Fruits.  Dessert.  Cafe.  Liqueurs.  Cigar es.  And  wines 
too  numerous  to  mention.     Good  appetites,  gentlemen! 

Before  each  plate  stood  seven  glasses,  ranging  from  the 
tall,  slim  beaker  and  the  shallow,  cup-like  goblet  to  the 
sturdy  tumbler,  squatting  democratically  on  its  broad 
base;  for  are  there  not  the  strong  red  wines,  and  those 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  135 

which  must  spread  and  sparkle,  and  those  which  love 
to  cream  and  foam  in  a  glass  as  narrow  as  a  ring? 

Suddenly  there  was  a  noise,  discreet  at  the  table  of  the 
masters,  unsparing  at  that  of  the  vine-dressers:  the  soup 
was  served.  And  it  was  really  fine  to  see  these  faces 
baked  by  the  sun,  the  napkins  spread  out  like  banners, 
the  rhythm  of  chests  and  elbows  at  work,  the  lips  suck- 
ing the  moustaches.  The  guests  looked  at  each  other 
peaceably,  and  said  very  little.  They  were  waiting 
calmly  for  the  moment  when  the  soul  of  the  bottles,  enter- 
ing into  them,  should  animate  their  hearts  and  loosen 
their  tongues.  To  be  the  guest  of  Joseph  Klug  of  Reich- 
burg  is  no  sinecure,  as  is  notorious.  Those  permitted 
to  reduce  the  mountains  of  asparagus  at  his  table  to 
molehills  have  to  be  serious  men  and  not  those  talk- 
mills  who  do  not  know  how  to  attack  good  victuals. 
They  looked  at  each  other  again,  their  lips  delicately 
greasy. 

The  wives  of  the  vine-dressers,  their  sleeves  rolled  up, 
brought  out  the  dishes  of  sauer-kraut,  garnished  with 
slices  of  bacon  and  voluptuously  rounded  sausages. 
And  with  them  was  Lina,  the  belle  of  Reichburg,  who 
handed  the  sauces  with  modest  downcast  eyelids,  perhaps 
to  show  off  the  length  of  her  lashes.  When  she  deigned 
to  raise  them,  she  revealed  eyes  of  such  a  soft  blue  that  it 
melted  one's  heart.  Weiss  gallantly  hummed  a  song 
about  cornflowers  and  summer  skies.  And  Lina  smiled 
as  she  glided  along  the  tables  bending  her  plump  neck 
and  fair  plaits. 


136  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

"Do  you  see  that  tall  young  fellow  over  there?  "  said 
Klug  to  Weiss,  "  the  one  with  the  black  moustache,  who 
follows  Lina  about  with  his  eyes?  He  is  her  betrothed, 
Gustave  Badwiller.  They  became  engaged  a  week  ago, 
when  the  leaves  were  stripped.  Ah!  there  was  a  good 
deal  of  anger  and  jealousy  among  the  Reichburg  lads! 
Lina  hasn't  a  penny,  but  she  knows  her  business.  And 
what  a  pair  of  eyes!  " 

The  guests  were  cheerful.  They  sipped  the  wines. 
Nostrils  dilated  as  the  bouquet  reached  them.  Lips  were 
smacked,  and  eyes  looked  up  ecstatically  to  the  weather- 
cock on  the  turret. 

"  This  is  Kitterle  of  1900.  .  .  ." 

"This  Riesling  is  good,  but  it  wanted  just  another 
touch  of  sun." 

"As  for  me,  I  always  come  back  to  Riquewihr.  It's 
a  treat  for  the  nose  as  well  as  the  palate." 

And  after  the  manner  of  men  who  spend  the  whole 
year  bending  over  the  vine-stock,  they  distinguished  be- 
tween the  "  throat-wines  "  and  the  "  tongue-wines,"  for 
there  are  some  which  must  be  rolled  on  the  tongue  and 
others  which  caress  the  uvula. 

"  You  know  a  really  civilized  man  by  the  way  he 
drinks  wine,"  said  Weiss.  "Beer  is  just  gulped;  it 
drowns  thirst.  But  wine  must  be  tasted.  There  is  men- 
tality in  this,  all  the  soul  of  a  territory,  all  the  colour  of 
a  race." 

They  questioned  Reymond  concerning  the  brands  of 
his  canton.    From  the  manner  in  which  he  vaunted  Deza- 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  137 

ley,  Villeneuve,  La  Cote,  and  Yvorne,  they  judged  him 
worthy  to  taste  the  wines  of  Alsace.  Kruger  held  his 
head  high,  and  he  listened  to  the  compliments  of  his 
guest  with  the  expression  of  a  playwright  whose  piece  is 
applauded. 

What  viands!  And  the  walnut-oil  salad,  gathered  that 
morning,  and  the  tarragon  sauces!  Every  minute  there 
was  a  procession  of  women  coming  along  by  the  covered 
staircase  bearing  fresh  dishes  and  new  bottles.  And 
Lina's  smile  was  fresher  than  a  rose  blooming  on  the  top 
of  a  wall. 

Meanwhile  the  thermometer  was  visibly  rising.  Nap- 
kins, pulled  out  from  waistcoats,  lay  on  the  table  between 
bowls  of  fruit  and  decanters  of  kirsch.  Jokes  were  ban- 
died in  patois.  Sweeping  gestures,  hilarious  faces,  shin- 
ing foreheads,  beatitude  in  the  eyes.  ...  A  sign  from 
Gustave  Badwiller  to  his  sweetheart.  He  took  her  by 
the  waist,  and  there  they  were  pirouetting  on  the  pave- 
ment of  the  old  courtyard,  beating  out  the  time  with  their 
heels,  forehead  to  forehead,  Lina's  red  apron  flaming  in 
the  sun  and  dying  down  in  the  shade.  .  .  .  Shoulders 
shook  with  good-natured  laughter.  One  of  the  vine- 
dressers took  a  mouth-organ  from  his  pocket  and  played 
a  pathetic  air,  ending  in  a  burst  of  roguish  notes.  The 
audience  applauded  lustily  through  rings  of  tobacco 
smoke.  And  high  above,  in  the  arch  of  heaven,  a  flight 
of  pigeons  flecked  the  blue  with  snow. 

"  It's  beginning,  it's  beginning!  "  cried  Weiss.  "  Long 
live  Alsace!     All  goes  well,  but  es  word  noch  besser  wenn 


138  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

emol  d'Schwobe  zuem  Land  use  geworfe  senn;  yes,  yes,  it 
would  be  better  still  if  the  Schwobs  were  turned  out  of 
the  country!  " 

And  he  related  one  of  those  popular  tales  which  in 
Alsace  have  the  faculty  of  spontaneous  generation. 

"Speaking  of  Schwobs,  do  you  know  this  story?  It 
was  in  Paradise,  at  the  beginning  of  the  world.  The 
Almighty  had  so  much  to  do  that  he  commissioned  Saint 
Peter  to  finish  the  creation  of  humanity.  Saint  Peter 
was  quite  a  good  hand  at  the  work.  He  took  the  different 
parts  from  a  basket,  fitted  them  together,  and  screwed 
them  fast.  A  tap  under  the  chin  and  the  man  set  out  for 
the  country  allotted  to  him.  However,  the  work  requires 
great  precision.  Saint  Peter  became  tired.  And  then 
he  made  mistakes,  giving  one  man  two  stomachs,  and  no 
heart,  and  another  two  hearts  and  two  stomachs.  Such 
things  may  happen.  .  .  .  Saint  Peter  noted  the  disaster. 
What  was  to  be  done?  He  approached  the  Almighty. 
He  admitted  his  carelessness  and  said :  '  Can  we  make 
use  of  these  two  men?  '  The  Almighty  considered;  He 
bowed  His  head.  Then  suddenly  He  decreed :  '  The 
man  with  two  hearts  you  are  to  put  in  Alsace ;  one  of  the 
hearts  will  be  for  Alsace  and  the  other  for  France;  the 
two  stomachs  shall  be  for  himself.  As  to  the  man  who 
has  no  heart  and  two  stomachs,  you  can  put  him  on  the 
other  side  of  the  Rhine  and  call  him  a  Schwob.'  " 

Such  stories,  born  in  the  hearts  of  an  oppressed  people, 
yet  without  bitterness,  have  a  knack  of  diverting  their 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  139 

hearers.  They  laughed  heartily,  so  heartily  that  they  be- 
came thirsty  again,  and  had  to  empty  another  glass  of 
Kitterle.  And  the  vine-dressers,  too,  had  their  stories,  a 
legacy  from  the  old  folks.  They  laughed  again  till  they 
cried,  with  that  deep,  healthy,  mighty  laughter  known  to 
Rabelais'  heroes,  which  breaks  out  like  a  torrent,  dies 
down,  breaks  out  again,  till  the  cheek-bones  glisten,  tears 
stand  in  the  eyes,  the  veins  make  an  arabesque  on  the 
forehead;  and  when  it  is  over  the  laugher  feels  lighter, 
fresher,  and  fitter,  ready  to  return  to  his  daily  task. 

Presently  they  were  playing  skittles  under  a  vast  per- 
gola covered  with  climbing  roses  in  King's  garden.  The 
perfume  of  the  roses  mingled  with  the  perfume  of  the 
vine-blossom,  the  June  heat  quivered  on  the  roofs  of 
Reichburg.  The  stork  clapped  his  beak  indefatigably  on 
the  top  of  his  gable;  girls  and  boys  passed  along  the 
roads,  holding  each  other  by  the  little  finger,  and  hum- 
ming pensive  airs;  blue  shadows  accumulated  in  the 
hollows  of  the  valleys,  and  the  bells  beat  their  wings 
in  their  stone  nests.  How  pleasant  it  was  that  Sunday 
afternoon  in  the  old  peasant's  garden,  with  its  roses,  its 
columbines,  its  huge  cabbages,  its  strawberries,  its  red- 
dening cherries!  The  whole  garden  was  a  burst  of 
laughter,  from  which  a  tom-cat,  roused  from  his  siesta, 
prudently  retired. 

"  Ah !  "  said  one  of  the  notables  of  Reichburg,  "  one 
is  happy  enough  up  here  ...  if  it  were  not  ...  if  it 
were  not  for  .  .  ." 


140  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

He  left  his  sentence  unfinished. 

"  If  it  were  not  for  the  phylloxera  .  .  ."  suggested 
Weiss. 

"Yes,  if  you  like.  .  .  .  But  one  can  sulphur-spray 
that,  whereas  it  would  have  no  effect  on  those  I  have  in 
my  mind." 

Patois  and  French  collided,  while  the  ball  rolled  along 
the  plank,  and  the  skittles  collapsed  with  a  clanking 
sound. 

Seven  o'clock  struck  from  the  belfry.  And  the  guests 
were  again  seated  in  the  court  round  the  table,  where  pies 
arched  their  brown  backs,  and  bottles  raised  their  slender 
necks  in  line.  There  was  singing  and  toasting.  Each 
one  hastened  to  proclaim  his  joy  to  the  evening  sky, 
for  the  company  was  about  to  break  up. 

And  now  a  scene  of  amazing  simplicity  took  place. 
The  door  of  the  archway  was  closed.  They  were  thor- 
oughly at  home,  among  safe  men.  Weiss  whispered 
something  to  Klug,  and  Klug  called  his  son,  a  little  boy 
of  ten.  The  child  ran  off.  A  minute  later  he  was  seen 
opening  the  window  in  the  turret;  then  he  disappeared 
again;  suddenly,  as  at  the  elder  Weiss's  house,  the  flag 
floated  out,  the  flag  that  is  kept  in  the  secret  cupboard. 
At  the  sight  of  it  all  were  silent,  all  rose,  and  all  uncov- 
ered, notables  and  vine-dressers  alike.  What  a  silence! 
And  all  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  swaying  colours.  At 
the  end  of  the  courtyard  the  women,  with  the  fair  Lina 
among  them,  also  gazed  at  it.  And  during  this  silence 
Gustave  Badwiller  proclaimed  in  his  stentorian  voice,  in 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  141 

patois,  that  he  was  about  to  address  the  flag  in  French. 
In  French?  There  was  amazement  among  those  who 
knew  the  man,  for  he  had  no  knowledge  of  France  or  of 
her  language ;  he  had  served  under  the  conqueror  in  some 
distant  province,  where  his  alertness  had  won  him  his 
sergeant's  stripes.  Every  one  looked  at  Badwiller, 
anxious  and  agitated.  But  his  keen  eyes  were  turned  on 
the  flag  with  magnificent  intensity,  as  if  an  instinct  were 
rising  from  his  heart,  a  mysterious  impulse.  His  breast 
heaved  under  the  effort,  the  sweat  stood  out  on  his  fore- 
head. Twice  the  vine-dresser  essayed  to  speak,  seeking 
words,  holding  out  his  hands,  splendid  in  his  mute  dis- 
tress.    Then  suddenly  the  cry  escaped  him: 

"  Long  live  France,  Noun  de  Die!  " 

He  sat  down  heavily,  exhausted. 

Never  had  Reymond  heard  a  finer  speech  —  and  he 
had  listened  to  a  great  many  in  the  inns  of  his  native 
land. 

The  guests  pressed  each  other's  hands.  They  took 
leave.  Weiss  and  Reymond  left  the  roofs  of  Reichburg, 
the  vine-clad  slopes,  behind  them.  The  Swiss  and  the 
Alsatian  walked  arm  in  arm.  And  to  give  rhythm  to 
their  march  under  the  stars,  they,  too,  exclaimed: 
"  Long  live  France,  Noun  de  Die!  " 


VIII 


'/^  OOD-BYE,  Monsieur,  till  the  autumn.  .  .  .  You  must 
VT  write  to  us." 

Basle,  Olten,  Berne,  and  finally  the  radiant  country 
that  is  mirrored  in  Lake  Leman. 

On  this  August  day  Aunt  Emma,  and  all  the  Reymonds, 
father,  mother,  brothers,  and  sisters,  were  making  holi- 
day in  honour  of  the  absent  one's  return.  They  were  on 
their  way  to  Le  Bouveret.  An  Italian  band  was  playing 
on  board  the  steamer,  gay  with  innumerable  parasols. 
Every  one  was  smiling,  lulled  by  the  sound  of  the  wheels 
churning  the  blue  waters.  The  mountains  were  dream- 
ing in  the  summer  vapour.  All  was  calm.  The  flags  on 
the  roofs  of  the  hotels  seemed  too  inert  to  float.  Only 
those  on  the  steamer  shook  out  their  colours,  making 
bright  spots  of  colour  that  danced  in  reflections  on  the 
waves.  Yes,  all  was  calm,  all  was  lovely;  it  seemed  as 
if  that  azure  lake  could  never  have  known  a  storm,  could 
never  have  drowned  any  one.  And  the  band  was  play- 
ing Funiculi-Funicula, 

"  It  is  splendid !  "  said  Aunt  Emma,  throwing  back 
her  veil.     "  Look  at  the  tourists,  how  pleased  they  are!  " 

Monsieur  Reymond  senior  was  keeping  anxious  watch 
over  his  basket  of  provisions,  round  which  an  English- 
woman's poodle  had  been  sniffing.     He  replied : 

"Yes,  splendid!  But  this  poodle  is  a  nuisance!" 
142 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  143 

Setting  the  basket  between  his  legs,  he  repeated:     "It's 
splendid!  " 

Reymond  thrust  out  his  chin  towards  a  man  who  was 
standing  near  the  bell  of  the  steamer  and  scrutinizing  the 
horizon. 

"Well?" 

"  That  is  one  of  the  police  officers  of  Mulhouse  Station. 
I  recognize  him  perfectly.     He  questioned  me  twice." 

"  He's  having  his  holiday;  it's  natural  enough,"  opined 
Monsieur  Reymond. 

And  Aunt  Emma  added:  "You  don't  suppose  he  is 
spying  on  people  who  are  taking  a  rest  on  a  steamer  in 
Switzerland?  " 

"I  didn't  say  he  was  spying.  I  said  that  at  Mul- 
house .  .  ." 

"  Well,  when  they  come  to  our  country,  we  can't  pre- 
vent them  from  having  a  look  round.  It's  their  right. 
They  pay  for  their  places  in  the  train;  they  pay  for  their 
meals  in  the  hotels;  they  are  well  dressed.  There  is 
nothing  against  them.  As  to  war  in  the  twentieth  cen- 
tury, what  folly!  " 

"  You  will  see !  Monsieur  Weiss,  of  whom  I  have  told 
you,  and  Monsieur  Bohler  too,  who  is  continually  travel- 
ling in  Germany,  who  knows  it  well,  and  hears  what  is 
being  said,  believe  we  shall  have  it  sooner  than  we  think." 
These  austere  words  distress  Aunt  Emma,  whose  hat, 
with  its  wreath  of  white  lilac,  droops  mournfully. 

"  We  must  not  take  too  gloomy  a  view  of  things. 
Anyhow,  every  one  loves  Switzerland;  we  need  only  look 


144  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

round  the  deck  of  this  steamer  to  be   sure  of  that." 

Monsieur  Reymond  is  fond  of  an  argument. 

"All  those  who  come  back  from  abroad  are  full  of 
these  blood-curdling  tales  .  .  .  spies,  riots,  and  suchlike. 
It  is  to  startle  quiet  folks.  Nations  prepare  for  war  now- 
adays; they  don't  declare  it.  Bankers  lend  their  money 
to  the  whole  world.  One  people  visits  another.  No; 
war  is  no  longer  possible." 

"War  is  infamous!  "  sighed  Aunt  Emma.  "I  prefer 
my  lake." 

"  I  once  went  through  your  Alsace  by  train,"  con- 
tinued Monsieur  Reymond.  "  Of  course,  it  was  wrong  of 
the  Germans  to  take  it.  But,  after  all,  there  is  a  good 
deal  of  exaggeration  on  the  subject.  Nobody  is  killed 
there.     Work  goes  on  steadily,  industry  prospers." 

"Yet  Monsieur  Weiss's  eldest  son  died  during  his 
term  of  military  service.  He  was  infamously  treated. 
And  so  you  think  it  can  be  pleasant  to  leave  one's  country 
for  ever?     In  a  year  both  my  pupils  will  go." 

Aunt  Emma  was  touched. 

"  But  they  will  come  back  for  holidays?  " 

"  Certainly  not." 

"Poor  boys!" 

Monsieur  Reymond  offered  a  solution: 

"The  Alsatians  are  to  be  pitied,  undoubtedly.  But 
you  will  see  that  sooner  or  later,  to  quench  this  fire  of 
discontent,  they  will  be  given  autonomy,  or  perhaps  their 
country  will  be  made  neutral.  There  are  a  hundred 
alternatives  to  war." 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  145 

The  Englishwoman's  dog  returned  slyly  to  the  charge. 
Monsieur  Reymond  kicked  out  valiantly  in  defence  of  his 
basket. 

There  was  a  silence.  They  admired  the  gentle,  smiling 
shore,  the  rippling  bays.     Aunt  Emma  shuddered. 

"  Let  us  bless  Providence  who  guards  us  from  suffer- 
ing. Let  us  cultivate  peace.  Let  us  strive  to  reconcile 
these  foreigners.     We  have  a  noble  part  to  play." 

Madame  Reymond  has  seven  children.  She  is  a  good 
wife,  a  good  mother.     A  cry  comes  from  her  heart: 

"After  all,  they  must  be  harsh  to  separate  mothers 
from  their  sons!  " 

Quivering  under  the  kisses  of  the  sun,  the  bays  seem  to 
repeat  incredulously:  "  They  must  indeed  be  harsh.  .  .  ." 

The  police  officer  is  standing  near  the  bell.  The  Italian 
shakes  the  pence  in  his  tray.  The  band  plays  the  Valse 
bleue. 


IX 


REYMOND  returned.  Nothing  was  changed.  The 
Rhine  rolled  its  green  waters;  the  factories  poured 
out  their  smoke.  The  Black  Forest,  the  blue  Vosges;  be- 
tween them,  the  garden  of  the  plain;  the  little  train 
whistled,  puffed,  ran  along  the  narrow  valley  on  the 
bank  of  the  river  with  its  rippling  waters.  On  the  sta- 
tion platform  stood  the  station-master  in  his  red  cap,  the 
policeman  in  his  spiked  helmet.  A  hill  is  turned,  and 
then  another.  The  belfry  of  Friedensbach  rises  above 
the  trees.  And  here  is  the  chubby  coachman,  and  Jean 
and  Rene,  hat  in  hand,  very  amiable,  and  a  little  shy. 
"Have  you  had  pleasant  holidays.  Monsieur?  " 
"Yes,  thank  you.  And  you?  How  are  your  pa- 
rents? " 

While  the  horses  were  trotting  along,  they  exchanged 
these  dismal  conventionalities.  They  had  all  looked 
forward  so  much  to  meeting  again,  and  now  they  were 
separated  by  these  two  months  of  holidays  during  which 
their  eyes  and  minds  had  been  turned  on  different  land- 
scapes and  dissimilar  preoccupations.  Between  tutor 
and  pupils  there  was  all  the  distance  that  separates  a 
seaside  resort  in  Normandy  and  the  Swiss  glaciers. 
There  was  a  disappointed  silence.  They  felt  that  they 
must  leave  the  task  of  picking  up  the  threads  again  to 

146 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  147, 

the  days  to  come.  When  people  live  together,  then 
everything,  sky,  trees,  men  with  their  speech  and  ges- 
tures, conspire  to  create  anew  the  desired  unity. 

The  same  porter,  the  same  court  filled  with  the  eternal 
buzz  of  the  machines,  the  same  heads  bowed  behind  the 
same  windows  of  the  same  office.  Old  Julie  greets  Rey- 
mond  from  her  kitchen.  "We  are  glad  to  have  you 
back,"  says  Madame  Bohler.  One  thread  is  picked  up. 
In  the  schoolroom  the  map,  the  statue  of  Jeanne  d'Arc, 
the  globe,  the  books;  on  the  blackboard  these  words  in 
capital  letters:  "July  16.  The  holidays.  Long  live 
France!  "  Reymond's  chair  is  in  the  embrasure,  whence 
one  can  see  the  road  leading  to  the  forest,  the  glades 
where  the  broom-bushes  grow.  And  here  objects  come 
to  meet  you.  The  eyes  that  observe  you  regain  their  look 
of  confidence.     The  valley  takes  you  to  its  heart  again. 

"The  joyous  band  of  Wednesdays  and  Saturdays  will 
be  much  reduced,"  said  Madame  Bohler.  "  Andre  Berger 
and  Emile  Zumbach,  who  are  very  much  tied  to  their 
technical  school,  are  only  to  come  home  on  Sundays. 
On  the  other  hand,  Charles  Weiss  will  join  our  boys  as 
often  as  the  college  curriculum  allows.  In  another  year 
we  shall  close  this  schoolroom.  Rene  might  stay  with 
us  a  little  longer,  but  we  do  not  wish  to  separate  the 
brothers.     Only  another  year!  " 

"  We  will  come  back,"  declared  Rene;  "  we  will  come 
back  with  the  French  army." 

And  here  is  Monsieur  Bohler,  with  his  faithful  face  and 
his  white  hair,  his  upright  figure,  the  shyness  of  a  silent 


148  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

man  of  action,  the  brief  gestures  which  seem  to  build  up 
a  fence.  With  him  Alsace,  struggle,  and  hidden  suffer- 
ing, present  themselves  again.     And  he  repeats: 

"  In  a  year  ...  in  a  year.  .  ,  .  Meanwhile,  work 
hard,  boys.  .  .  .  The  books  have  come.  Monsieur  Rey- 
mond.  Tomorrow  at  eight  o'clock  you  can  open  your 
factory." 

They  parted.  Reymond  follows  the  road,  strides  over 
the  level  crossing,  passes  the  school,  where  he  perceives 
Kummel,  who  makes  a  profound  bow.  The  geese  are 
cackling  by  the  fountain  where  the  pot-bellied  god  sits 
enthroned.  The  boys  pursue  each  other,  dragging  their 
sabots  along  the  pavement. 

"  Jacobine,  here  he  is!  " 

Old  Schmoler  is  on  his  threshold,  holding  out  his  hand. 
Jacobine  hurries  out.  And  Reymond  returns  to  the  bed- 
room with  the  closed  shutters,  the  shells,  the  bed  with 
its  cretonne  tester  and  hangings.  The  dinner-bell.  The 
two  tables.  Mahlzeit!  Good-day!  Kraut,  smug  and 
sanctimonious,  his  beard  on  his  chest,  contemplates  the 
plump  widow.  Silent  and  motionless,  the  ofl&cials  eat 
and  drink. 

"What  news  is  there  at  Friedensbach?  .  .  ."  The 
Alsatians  raise  their  eyebrows  by  way  of  reply.  Coquart 
lights  a  cigarette  with  deliberation. 

"  I  am  leaving  in  a  week,  my  dear  fellow.  This  dull 
hole  will  be  the  death  of  me.  I  am  going  back  to  my 
seaport." 

"  How  long  shall  you  have  been  at  Friedensbach?  " 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  149 

"Three  years.  Long  enough  to  atone  for  all  my  sins, 
past,  present,  and  future." 

He  shrugs  his  shoulders.  Three  years  of  boredom. 
Three  years  of  recriminations,  of  disillusioned  speeches. 
The  officials  retire.     Mahlzeit. 

Coquart  giggles. 

"  I  shall  make  them  laugh  at  La  Rochelle  with  that 
Mahlzeit!  It  is  the  only  German  word  I  shall  carry 
away.  I  will  declare  it  at  the  Custom-house,  for  fear 
they  should  take  it  from  me  .  .  ." 

Night  falls  on  the  roofs.  The  policeman's  step  echoes 
in  the  deserted  street.  The  shoemaker's  apprentice  is 
playing  the  concertina.  The  three  generations  of 
Schmoler  make  remarks  in  patois.  How  far  away  is 
Lake  Leman,  with  its  mountains  and  its  meadows  where 
the  cow-bells  tinkle ! 

Reymond  asks  himself  whether  he  ever  left  Friedens- 
bach. 

The  next  morning,  Reymond,  pleased  to  find  that  the 
knowledge  acquired  by  his  pupils  had  not  evaporated 
unduly,  made  a  ministerial  pronouncement:  they  were 
going  to  set  to  work  in  earnest,  and  carry  off  a  Bachelor's 
degree  at  the  point  of  the  bayonet! 

"  I  count  upon  you,  boys.  And  now,  before  we  begin 
the  attack,  we  must  renew  our  acquaintance  with  the 
Vosges.  After  which  we  shall  be  fit  for  real  good 
work." 

A  pale  October  sunshine  played  upon  the  slopes.  In 
the  russet  woods,  where  pheasants  strutted  and  startled 


150  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

hares  fled  before  them,  the  pedestrians  trod  on  the  first 
leaves  of  autumn.  Sometimes  from  the  blue  depths  of  a 
glade  rose  a  flock  of  migratory  birds,  and  one  heard  the 
rhythmic  beat  of  hurrying  wings  and  the  thrust  of 
feathered  breasts  against  the  warm  air.  A  supernatural 
radiance  shone  in  space. 

They  came  out  on  a  summit  bristling  with  pink  rocks, 
barbed  with  furze-spines,  and  red  with  bilberry  foliage. 
Standing  on  the  lofty  peak  by  his  trusty  dog,  a  goatherd 
was  guarding  the  flocks  of  Friedensbach  —  a  very  old 
goatherd,  incredibly  thin,  with  a  short  beard  like  the 
lichen  that  grows  on  aged  pines.  This  Seppi  was  an 
original.  As  long  as  any  one  could  remember  he  had 
been  living  alone  in  his  cottage  at  the  mouth  of  the 
ravine,  cooking  his  soup,  mending  his  clothes,  sawing  his 
wood,  stacking  his  faggots,  smoking  his  pipe.  In  winter 
he  was  never  seen.  Perhaps  he  hibernated  like  the  mar- 
mots. When  spring  came  he  blew  his  cow-horn  and  went 
from  stable  to  stable,  collecting  the  goats  and  kids.  He 
greeted  every  one  he  met,  even  the  policeman,  with  a 
Bon  jour  (which  he  pronounced  Bochour)  and  a  French 
military  salute,  placing  his  open  hand  against  the  brim  of 
his  rust-coloured  hat. 

It  was  said  that  Seppi  was  eighty-one  years  old.  Per- 
haps he  was  a  little  more,  perhaps  a  little  less.  He  was 
known  to  have  wandered  all  over  the  world,  to  have 
fought  in  the  Crimea  and  in  the  Italian  campaign,  to  have 
enlisted  at  the  age  of  forty  when  it  had  been  announced 
on    the   market-place   that   the   troops   were   marching 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  151 

against  Germany.  When  the  war  was  over  he  had  re- 
turned to  his  annexed  valley,  more  original  than  ever, 
talking  to  himself  and  smoking  incessantly.  And  now 
from  early  spring  to  late  autumn,  he  was  only  to  be  seen 
from  below  and  from  afar,  standing  on  the  point  of  a 
rock  where  his  thin  silhouette  was  outlined  against  the 
grey  or  the  blue  of  the  sky.  Last  witness  of  the  days  of 
glory,  he  seemed  to  be  guarding  Alsace  as  well  as  his 
goats,  set  upon  the  mountain-top  like  a  prophet. 

When  the  three  approached  him,  Seppi  made  his  mili- 
tary salute  and  said  Bochour,  Reymond  offered  him  a 
cigar.  The  old  man  laughed.  His  nostrils  quivered 
with  pleasure.  The  dog  growled,  his  muzzle  out- 
stretched, snuffing  the  air,  uneasy  at  the  sight  of  the  flocks 
of  birds  passing  overhead  in  the  golden  light,  their  heads 
pointing  to  the  west. 

"  Good-bye !  "  cried  the  old  man.  "  My  greetings  to 
Marseilles." 

"Do  you  know  Marseilles  well?"  asked  Reymond, 
hoping  for  a  story. 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"  I  know  many,  many  countries  —  black  men,  red  men, 
white  men.  ...  I  know  the  Pas  de  Calais,  principal 
town  Arras.  I  know  Paris  ...  I  know  Algiers.  ...  I 
know  Bombay  and  Calcutta.  I  know  ...  ah!  I  know 
all  countries." 

"  And  which  do  you  like  best?  " 

"  This  mountain.  I  have  been  standing  on  it  all  day 
for  forty  years.     I  talk  to  my  dog,  my  goats,  the  rocks, 


152  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

the  trees.  In  the  valley  I  hold  my  tongue.  It's  safer, 
isn't  it,  Eugene?  " 

The  dog,  squatting  upon  the  moss,  barked  his  assent. 

"And  you  believe,  don't  you,  that  Alsace  will  be 
French  again  some  day?  "  asked  Rene. 

Seppi  was  startled  by  the  directness  of  this  question. 
To  give  himself  time  to  answer,  he  sent  Eugene  after  two 
undisciplined  goats,  which  the  dog  smartly  brought  back 
to  the  flock.  Then  the  goatherd  answered  in  prudent 
sibylline  phrases,  gazing  dreamily  into  space: 

"What  will  be,  will  be.  .  .  .  The  weather  is  fair. 
The  wind  rises  and  the  storm  is  upon  us.  .  .  .  The  beaten 
man  hides.  The  conqueror  draws  himself  up  and  holds 
his  head  high.  ...  A  stone,  and  he  falls.  Since  Na- 
poleon fell,  why  should  not  others?  All  one  can  do  is  to 
smoke  one's  pipe  and  hold  one's  tongue,  and  wait,  wait. 
Nothing  comes.  Nothing.  And  yet  it  is  coming.  .  .  . 
Some  morning  .  .  .  some  evening  .  .  .  sooner  or  later. 
I  am  old.  I  cannot  write.  I  cannot  read.  I  know  noth- 
ing of  what  is  going  on  on  this  side  or  on  that  (Seppi 
jerked  his  thumb  in  the  direction  of  the  Vosges  and  the 
Rhine).  .  .  .  But  I  say  this:  when  I  see  this  one  or  that 
one  treating  poor  folks  harshly,  I  look  about  on  the  road 
for  the  stone.  ...  I  do  not  see  it,  because  my  sight  is 
bad,  but  I  know  very  well  that  it  is  where  it  should  be." 

The  old  man  laughed  softly.  Fearful  of  having  said 
too  much,  he  again  sent  Eugene  in  pursuit  of  wandering 
members  of  the  flock.  His  toothless  mouth  closed.  He 
had  said  enough  for  one  day. 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  153 

The  three  went  on,  but  several  times  they  turned  to 
look  again  at  the  old  goatherd,  the  tenacious  shadow  of  a 
tenacious  past,  standing  in  the  radiance  of  the  setting 
sun,  wrapped  in  his  rough  coat  garnished  with  wallets 
and  flasks  that  protruded  from  his  meagre  form. 

So  they  set  to  work  again  with  a  kind  of  fury  during 
the  monotony  of  the  autumn  days. 

The  bark  of  the  hooters,  the  gasp  of  the  machines,  the 
clang  of  wooden  shoes  on  the  pavement,  are  sounds  that 
govern  one's  life.  They  seem  necessary  and  eternal. 
One  exists  in  and  by  them.  One  passes  from  one  to  the 
other  morning  and  afternoon.  They  prescribe  a  strict 
discipline. 

And  the  Alsatian  drama  is  forgotten,  or  rather  it  is 
laid  aside,  shut  up  in  the  cupboard  with  the  spinning- 
wheel  and  the  flag.  One  must  live;  and  living  means 
getting  up  in  the  morning,  working,  eating,  submitting 
to  the  order  established  by  force,  forming  habits,  becom- 
ing akin  to  the  machines  whose  steel  arms  come  and  go 
always  in  ore  direction  and  never  in  another.  .  .  .  And 
all  this  until  the  day  when  things  one  imagined  were  dead 
and  buried  and  mingled  with  the  dust  cut  you  to  the  heart, 
and  make  you  spring  to  your  feet  with  a  flame  in  your 
eyes.  .  .  .  Yet  only  for  a  moment.  Reality  gets  the  bet- 
ter of  you.  For  one  moment  that  one  spends  upon  the 
heights,  how  many  weeks  and  months  one  crawls  upon 
the  soft  earth  of  the  plains!  Emotion  wears  one  out 
and  kills  one.  .  .  .  Habit  preserves  one. 

The  shuttle  flashes,  the  thread  is  wound  on  the  reel,  th^ 


154  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

great  frames  on  which  the  wool  is  drying  swing,  the  belts 
which  carry  power  slip  along  —  everything  ascends  and 
descends.  These  belts  seem  to  have  laid  hold  of  your 
thought,  your  heart,  your  desires  —  everything  seems  to 
slip  away  from  you  in  this  supple  movement,  leaving  you 
in  the  void,  a  slave  to  the  familiar  act.  Weiss  expresses 
it  very  aptly  in  his  picturesque  language:  "Heroics 
twice  a  year.  The  rest  of  the  time  one  turns  the  handle, 
holds  one's  tongue,  and  carries  on  in  the  greyness." 

One  carries  on  in  the  greyness.     It  is  just  that. 

The  autumn  draws  to  an  end.  White,  then  blue,  now 
a  dirty  yellow,  the  mountains  are  gathered  round  the 
valley.  The  fog  drops  down  from  them  like  a  great 
bird  with  outspread  wings;  its  dews  are  distilled  even 
upon  the  paunches  of  the  pumpkins.  There  are  baskets 
under  the  apple-trees.  The  walnuts  fall  in  showers, 
harried  by  stout  cudgels.  Early  in  the  morning  the 
woodman  goes  off,  ax  on  shoulder,  to  the  crimsoning 
woods.  Gee-up!  The  horses  bow  their  heads  and 
stiffen  their  legs;  another  shining  furrow  lies  beside  the 
shining  furrows  in  which  the  magpies  are  disporting 
themselves.  Fires  in  the  corners  of  the  field,  sending  out 
long  streamers  of  smoke.  Children  pass  along  the  hedge* 
rows,  gathering  hazel-nuts  and  the  coral  hips  and  haws; 
old  men,  seated  on  the  doorsteps,  fill  the  mattresses  with 
dry  leaves,  and  grandmothers  shell  beans  wrapped  in 
red  or  violet  sheaths.  •  The  potatoes  are  lifted.  One 
holds  communion  with  the  soft  silence  of  evening.  The 
sheet  of  fog  has  rolled  away;  the  sun,  like  a  fine  red  fruit, 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  155 

is  swallowed  by  the  valley  behind  the  mountain.  Six 
o'clock.  The  peasant  raises  his  head  to  watch  for  a 
minute  the  black  battalion  of  artisans  which  the  factory 
has  suddenly  ejected  from  all  its  gates  on  to  the  high 
road.  The  policeman  walks  about.  All  is  quiet.  The 
magistrate  opens  his  window.  He  shuts  it  again.  This 
land  is  submissive. 

And  All  Saints'  Day  is  here  again,  with  its  bells,  its 
sermon,  its  procession,  its  chrysanthemums,  its  graves 
which  the  banners  have  saluted,  drooping  over  them. 

The  fog  thickens,  stretched  over  the  valley  like  a  wind- 
ing-sheet. According  to  the  hour,  it  lifts  a  little,  then 
drops  again.  One  lives  under  or  in  it.  The  river  laughs 
discreetly,  and  flees  from  the  white  curtain  which  cannot 
check  its  clear  waters. 

The  goats  are  baaing  in  the  stables.  Seppi  has  closed 
the  door  of  his  cottage.  But  for  the  smoke  from  his  roof, 
he  might  be  dead.  At  eight  o'clock  and  at  two  o'clock 
the  children  come  to  school,  but  their  wooden  shoes  make 
no  sound  in  the  soft  mud.  Kummel  stands  behind  his 
desk,  near  the  overheated  stove.  Dieser,  diese,  dieses, 
echoes  the  class.  Kummel  speaks  of  the  German  rivers, 
the  German  towns,  German  conquests.  His  switch  comes 
down.  Bader  is  inattentive.  He  is  turned  out  of  the 
room.  The  pedagogue  casts  a  frigid  glance  at  his  audi- 
tors.    All  backs  are  bowed  under  the  Prussian  discipline. 

The  three-twenty  train  whistles  languidly.  No  one  gets 
out,  and  no  one  gets  in.  It  goes  off  again,  and  for  a 
moment  there  is  a  rattle  of  iron  in  the  opaque  air.  .  .  • 


156  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

A  carriage?  Window-curtains  are  drawn  aside.  Who 
is  in  it?  No  one  can  say.  This  man  who  is  passing  with 
the  hood  of  his  cloak  pulled  up  till  only  the  ends  of  a 
moustache  damp  with  fog  are  to  be  seen  is  the  merchant 
Maus.  Since  he  "rallied"  he  has  walked  in  military 
fashion,  with  his  shoulders  high,  and  he  holds  his  cane  as 
one  holds  the  sheath  of  a  sword.  Couah !  Couah !  The 
curtains  are  drawn  back  again.  A  motor-car  dashes  by. 
There  is  a  dog  inside,  and  a  gloved  hand  strokes  its  head. 

And  Coquart  has  gone.  He  pressed  a  few  hands  at 
parting.  And  he  said  once  more  as  he  stood  on  the  foot- 
board of  the  carriage:  "They're  all  half  dead  here." 
This  is  all  he  can  tell  the  inhabitants  of  La  Rochelle 
about  Alsace. 

The  greyness  that  falls  from  the  sky  mingles  with  that 
which  rises  from  men's  hearts.  A  gust  of  wind  rends  it. 
It  closes  up  again,  thicker  than  ever.  Nevertheless,  old 
Rouf  has  sharpened  his  knives.  The  pig  which  has  just 
been  bound  to  a  trestle  weeps,  protests,  and  wriggles  his 
pink  belly.  His  feet  fall  away  stupidly.  He  is  dead. 
What  did  his  cries  avail  him?  As  we  know,  there  is  no 
resisting  superior  force.  They  crowd  round  the  defunct, 
they  scrape  his  carcase  after  watering  it  with  boiling 
water,  they  cut  and  carve,  they  compute  his  weight  in 
sausages  and  hams.  A  terror  descends  upon  the  world 
of  domestic  animals,  and  on  the  geese,  who  make  off, 
stretching  out  their  beaks,  and  uttering  protesting  cries. 
Only  the  bronze  cock  screwed  to  the  ball  of  the  fountain 
is  indifferent  to  this  murder!     Is  he  not  a  permanent 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  157 

institution?  .  .  .  Well,  not  so  permanent,  after  all,  per- 
haps, for  Kummel  has  thoughts  of  substituting  for  him 
an  eagle  with  a  hooked  beak  and  tense  claws,  like  those 
on  the  regimental  colours.  Meanwhile,  there  will  be  a 
feast  of  pig's  puddings  at  Rouf's  this  evening. 

The  fog  refuses  to  lift  from  the  valley.  It  drinks  up 
sounds,  eifaces  colours,  covers  everything  with  its  melan- 
choly. It  turns  the  open  space  in  front  of  the  Mairie 
into  a  white  square  bordered  by  shadowy  houses;  people 
move  about  in  it,  talking  loudly  to  prove  that  they  still 
exist.  This  old  woman  who  has  been  washing  linen  in 
the  river  is  grotesque  with  her  pail  upon  her  shoulder; 
so,  too,  are  these  other  women  coming  out  of  the  factory, 
their  hair  heavy  with  moisture,  their  shoulders  cowering 
under  their  shawls.  A  man  lurches  against  the  old 
woman.  He  says  "  Gottverdammi !  "  and  goes  off,  a 
ghost  among  ghosts. 

Reymond  and  his  pupils,  their  foreheads  against  the 
panes  of  the  schoolroom  window,  watch  the  phantom 
procession  of  workmen  in  the  courtyard.  Reymond  re- 
marks: 

"Saturday,  pay-day.  There  will  be  a  fine  drinking- 
bout  this  evening!  At  midnight  I  shall  hear  Grumbach 
kicking  at  his  door.  His  wife  never  wakes  up  till  he  gets 
to  the  fiftieth  kick.  As  Grumbach  gives  one  per  minute, 
the  neighbours  have  time  to  enjoy  the  serenade." 

Rene  laughs  loudly.  He  loves  life  and  noise.  He  is 
delighted  at  the  thought  of  these  kicks  on  a  closed  door 
at  midnight.     Jean  pleads  extenuating  circumstances. 


158  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

"  They  are  bored,  poor  fellows!  In  other  places  there 
are  theatrical  societies,  choral  unions,  all  sorts  of  things. 
Here  one  may  not  declaim  what  one  likes,  or  play  what 
one  likes,  or  sing  what  one  likes.  The  policeman  pokes 
his  nose  in  everywhere.  They  hunt  down  bugles,  and 
white  gaiters,  and  peaked  caps.  They  forbid  and  forbid. 
Only  the  Kriegervereine  have  free  play.  .  .  ." 

"  What  about  a  library?  " 

"A  library?  .  .  .  But,  Monsieur,  there  is  a  library  — 
managed  by  Kummel!  It  contains  a  hundred  books, 
which  all  declare  that  France  is  rotten  to  the  core." 

The  fog  closes  in  over  the  last  workman.  Where  are 
we?  ...  In  the  misery  of  this  eternal  twilight  only  the 
mud  that  clings  to  our  shoes  assures  us  that  the  earth 
is  still  under  our  feet. 

"  On  such  a  day  as  this,"  said  Rene  suddenly,  "Alsace 
should  be  taken  back.  The  French  army  could  slip  along 
to  Strasburg.  When  the  sun  came  out  again  the  tricolour 
would  float  on  every  steeple.  The  Statthalter  would 
make  a  fine  face !  " 

Jean,  more  philosophical,  expressed  his  wonder  at  the 
relativity  of  human  things. 

"  Monsieur,  don't  you  think  it  must  be  difficult  to  be 
heroic  in  the  fog?  One's  soul  seems  to  be  made  of  cot- 
ton-wool! There  is  no  distance,  no  substance,  no  sharp 
edges.  Everything  is  soft,  moist,  and  viscous.  Is  there 
really  a  country  called  France?  A  town  called  Berlin? 
Men  who  walk  about  with  swords  slung  to  their  belts? 
What  becomes  of  words,  of  principles,  and  of  ideas. 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  159 

After  ten  days  of  fog  one  is  no  longer  oneself.  One 
gropes  and  talks  low.  If  humanity  had  always  lived  in 
a  fog,  what  queer  creatures  we  should  be  —  pale,  shiver- 
ing, our  arms  always  stretched  out  towards  a  possible 
obstacle!  " 

"  We  should  all  have  become  mushrooms,"  interrupted 
Rene.  "  I  should  put  myself  down  as  a  delicious  agaric. 
And  I  could  find  a  species  for  a  great  many  others  — 
Kummel,  Justice  Doring,  and  the  rest!  " 

Reymond  laughed. 

"How  like  the  two  of  you!  Rene,  who  translates 
everything  into  images,  robust  and  combative;  and  you, 
Jean,  fond  of  theorizing,  sensitive.  .  .  ." 

Rene  holds  up  his  head.  He  has  been  described  as 
combative.  Jean  feels  that  his  tutor  has  hit  the  nail  on 
the  head. 

"  It's  a  nuisance  to  be  sensitive,  Monsieur.  One  is  at 
the  mercy  of  fog  and  sunshine.  Kummel  cares  nothing 
about  the  fog.  He  rides  his  hobby  faithfully  from  Janu- 
ary to  December.  This  may  be  stupid,  but  it's  strong. 
Over-impressionable  people,  those  who  have  too  many 
scruples,  are  not  made  to  rule." 

"  Well,  I  am  off  now,  little  dialectician.  But  please 
keep  your  tact  and  your  scruples;  I  like  you  better  as 
you  are." 

Near  the  level  crossing  there  was  a  shadow  which  ges- 
ticulated. 

"  Is  that  you,  Monsieur  Weiss?  What  about  the 
Vosges?     When  shall  we  have  our  next  excursion?  " 


160  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

"  Don't  tantalize  me.  A  winter  like  this  is  the  worst 
of  tortures!  " 

Then  he  took  up  Jean  Bohler's  parable: 

"  If  we  were  ourselves,  free,  we  should  have  a  little 
theatre,  we  should  get  a  lecturer  to  come  now  and  then. 
But  just  try  anything  of  the  sort!  Kummel,  Doring, 
and  the  policeman,  are  the  Holy  Trinity.  Rather  than 
undergo  remarks,  sneers,  and  rebuffs,  we  give  up  every- 
thing, and  curl  ourselves  up  like  hedgehogs.  And  when 
the  fog  comes  down  on  us,  it's  about  the  limit!     Brrr!  " 

Truly  the  journalist  who  should  come  to  Friedensbach 
at  this  juncture  to  collect  heroic  sentiments  would  depart 
with  a  blank  notebook.  Others  may  play  the  matadore, 
standing  with  arched  hip,  and  hand  on  this  hip.  What 
is  the  use  of  talking  and  declaiming?  Does  it  advance 
matters  at  all? 

So  old  Herzog,  one  of  the  vanquished  of  Sedan,  ham- 
mers at  his  soles  conscientiously.  Old  Schmoler,  one  of 
the  vanquished  of  Woerth,  comes  and  goes  in  his  loft, 
separates  the  rotten  apples  from  the  sound  ones,  stops  up 
the  hole  where  the  rats  get  through,  cuts  up  the  dry 
branches  and  binds  them  into  faggots.  One  hears  him 
sucking  at  his  pipe.  And  Jacobine  trots  from  her  iron- 
ing-board to  the  saucepan  in  which  the  sausage  is  sim- 
mering. 

In  the  restaurant  Madame  Vogel  continues  to  make 
omelettes,  to  taste  soups,  to  lay  the  table,  to  smile  at 
customers  with  a  placidity  which  overcomes  the  languor 
of  Kraut.     Poor  Kraut!     This  fog  depresses  him  more 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  161 

than  any  one.  Sometimes,  after  he  has  been  at  his  figures 
all  the  morning,  his  mind  seems  to  stop  dead,  like  a  clock 
that  wants  cleaning.  During  the  clink  of  the  forks,  which 
fatigues  him,  he  thinks  of  retirement.  Was  a  man  of 
his  age  meant  to  live  alone?  He  ought  to  have  a  wife 
to  keep  his  wardrobe  in  order,  wrap  up  his  hot  water- 
bottle  in  flannel,  and  twine  her  arms  round  his  con- 
scientious neck.  Kraut  is  not  very  sure  if  he  made  an 
amicable  sign  to  his  hostess.  He  thinks  that  he  did. 
.  .  .  The  diners  have  departed.  Kraut  remains  alone 
under  the  crackling  gas-jet.  .  .  .  Should  he  go  into  the 
kitchen?  Should  he  set  forth  in  simple  terms  his  lone- 
liness, the  needs  of  his  heart,  the  amount  of  his  retiring 
pension?  He  does  not  dare.  He  will  never  dare.  He 
listens  to  the  song  that  is  rising  with  the  steam  from  a 
saucepan.  And  he  goes  off,  his  green  hat  pulled  down 
on  the  nape  of  his  neck,  his  candid  eyes  full  of  sadness, 
his  beard  moist  with  fog. 

Here  he  is  again.  It  was  really  too  horrible  out  of 
doors;  too  cold  in  his  bedroom  imder  the  tiles.  Kraut 
has  made  a  resolution.  He  feels  within  him  all  the 
strength  of  the  old  Germany  which  serves  God,  all  the 
strength  of  her  ancient  legends  and  her  modern  glory. 
Bending  over  the  saucepan  where  the  water  which  is  to 
be  used  for  washing  up  the  dinner  things  is  bubbling, 
Madame  Vogel  looks  round  with  her  eternal  smile  of  the 
circumspect  hostess.  But  she  starts.  For  the  worthy 
man  is  alarming,  with  his  flushed  face,  his  stammering 
confessions,  his  light  eyes  illumined  by  senile  desire. 


162  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

The  handsome  widow  holds  her  hands  up  to  heaven,  in- 
voking it  to  witness  her  refusal. 

"Madame  Vogel,"  said  old  Kraut  with  sinister  calm, 
"  you  understand  me,  don't  you?  I  have  earned  my 
pension.  ...  If  you  like,  I  will  keep  the  accounts  of 
your  restaurant.  ...  I  am  used  to  such  work.  .  .  ." 

The  widow  temporizes.  With  gentle  pertinacity,  she 
suggests  that  Thuringia  is  full  of  worthy  women.  Kraut 
smiles  bitterly. 

"Are  you  refusing  me  because  I  am  a  German?  " 

In  the  interests  of  the  restaurant,  it  seems  prudent 
to  evade  this  question. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of.  Monsieur  Kraut?  .  .  . 
My  husband  has  only  been  dead  two  years!  If  he  could 
hear  you!  " 

Mademoiselle  Schmoler  comes  in  innocently.  Kraut 
can  but  withdraw.  His  world  is  crumbling  about  him: 
God,  the  old  legends,  the  young  glory  of  his  country. 
What  is  the  use  of  administering  this  country  so  con- 
scientiously, when  its  widows  refuse  the  love  of  veteran 
officials? 

Returning  to  his  cold  bedroom  under  the  tiles,  Kraut 
contemplates  in  turn  the  bounding  dogs  in  the  rounds 
of  his  wall-paper,  the  engravings  on  the  walls  showing 
the  Thuringian  hills,  the  Scripture  text  which  says:  The 
Good  Shepherd  gives  His  life  for  the  sheep,  and,  above 
all,  it  must  be  said,  in  a  corner  in  a  gilt-frame,  the  por- 
trait of  a  lady  with  fat  cheeks,  a  stupid  expression,  a 
white  forehead,  and  a  bewildering  mass  of  hair.     How 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  163 

did  Kraut  get  hold  of  this  advertisement  for  a  hair-wash? 
It  is  a  mystery.  How  often  he  looks  at  it  before  he  goes 
to  sleep!  With  a  firm  step,  Kraut  advances  to  the  lady 
with  the  flowing  tresses  who  is  so  astonishingly  like 
Madame  Vogel;  he  seizes  the  picture,  throws  it  to  the 
ground,  and  plants  his  foot  on  the  pink  throat  and  the  soft 
eyes.  The  Good  Shepherd  looks  at  Kraut  sadly.  What 
he  is  doing  is  wrong,  very  wrong.  His  conscience  smites 
him;  he  picks  up  the  lady  and  hangs  her  on  the  wall 
again.  The  other  picture  at  the  end  of  the  room,  which 
shows  the  German  fleet  covering  the  ocean  as  far  as  the 
eye  can  reach,  does  not  console  him  in  the  least.  .  .  . 
Kraut  sits  upon  his  bed,  unties  his  shoes  slowly,  takes 
off"  his  coat  and  waistcoat  and  his  thick  flannel  jacket; 
but,  as  he  has  a  dignity  of  his  own,  he  does  not  look  at 
the  lady  with  the  generous  bosom  again. 

From  that  day  forth  Kraut  was  embittered.  Beer, 
saveloys,  mustard,  sauer-kraut,  all  those  divine  foods, 
had  a  taste  of  ashes.  In  the  ofiGce,  papers  lay  about  and 
accounts  would  not  balance.  Kraut  was  old.  His  mind 
was  going.  Childish  memories  came  back  to  him  with 
ecstatic  violence.  To  all  who  inquired  after  his  health 
he  replied: 

"  I  want  to  go  home." 

He  pronounced  these  words  with  tears  in  his  voice, 
a  senile  trembling  of  the  lips.  Home!  ...  It  was  not 
in  Alsace.  It  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  Rhine.  He 
felt  a  longing  to  hide  in  his  mother's  skirts  as  of  old. 
.  .  .  His  mother?  ...  No;    she  was  dead.     Then,  he 


164  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

would  hide  in  the  green  skirt  of  the  forests  where  as  a 
child  he  gathered  strawberries  with  his  schoolfellows. 
"  I  want  to  go  home.  .  .  ." 

Monsieur  Bohler  rushes  out  of  the  office,  a  telegram  in 
his  hand.  It  is  only  eleven  in  the  morning.  What  has 
happened  to  this  man,  generally  such  a  rigid  observer  of 
rules?  .  .  .  The  house-door  slams  behind  him. 

"  What  is  the  matter?  "  asks  Madame  Bohler  in  alarm. 

"  I  don't  understand  it  at  all.  A  telegram  from  Leip- 
zig telling  me  that  Marthe  is  dead." 

Marthe,  the  orphan  niece  who,  against  his  strongly  ex- 
pressed wish,  had  married  a  banker  of  that  city;  Marthe, 
the  fair-haired,  happy  child  who  had  so  often  run  about 
this  little  room  and  climbed  upon  the  knee  of  the  uncle 
who  had  been  her  second  father ;  Marthe,  dead  at  the  age 
of  twenty-five,  and  about  to  be  buried  in  foreign  earth ! 

"Marthe!" 

"Well,  she's  had  five  children  in  five  years!  The 
fifth  has  killed  her.  ...  I  won't  go.  In  the  first  place, 
it's  too  far.     And  then  .  .  .  No,  I  won't  go." 

"You  must  go,  in  memory  of  your  brother.  Believe 
me  .  .  .  Poor  Marthe!  Who  would  have  thought  it? 
In  the  presence  of  death  one  can  only  forgive  and  par- 
don." 

"  Do  you  think  I  am  angry  with  the  poor  child?  Does 
a  girl  know  what  she  is  doing  at  nineteen?  We  ought 
never  to  have  sent  her  to  school  in  Germany.  Were  we 
too  hard  on  her?     How  could  she  marry  a  man  who  cut 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  165 

down  our  soldiers  in  1870,  and  did  all  he  could  to  pro- 
mote the  theft  of  our  country  from  us?  .  .  .  However,  all 
that  belongs  to  the  past,  and  now  she  is  dead.  No,  I 
won't  go.  I  can't  go.  What  sort  of  a  face  can  I  put  on 
before  that  tribe  of  Zinglers?     It's  impossible." 

"  Go,  my  dear;  trust  me." 

"No!" 

They  looked  at  a  photograph  of  a  laughing  little  girl 
on  the  writing  table. 

"  You  must  go,  my  dear." 

"No!" 

Monsieur  Bohler  went  away.  His  white  head  was  seen 
passing  through  the  courtyard. 

Of  course,  he  started  that  very  evening.  He  was 
away  two  days.  When  he  returned  he  had  not  much  to 
say. 

"They  behaved  very  well.  The  husband  was  quite 
crushed.  He  was  devoted  to  her.  It  was  just  as  I 
thought.  She  died  at  the  birth  of  her  fifth  child,  which 
has  survived.  Poor  little  Marthe!  They  showed  me  a 
portrait  of  her,  a  very  good  likeness,  surrounded  by  the 
portraits  of  four  or  five  generations  of  Zinglers,  nearly 
all  in  uniform.  It  made  me  think  of  a  picture  stolen  in 
war-time.  ...  It  rained  incessantly.  .  .  .  Ah!  don't  let 
us  talk  about  this  any  more." 

Monsieur  Bohler  became  silent.  And  his  wife,  who 
understood  him,  asked  no  more  questions.  WTiat  he  did 
not  tell  her  —  for  he  was  a  man  of  action  who  would  not 
confess  that  he  was  sentimental  —  was  that  he  had  taken 


166  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

with  him  a  handful  of  earth  from  Alsace,  which  he  had 
thrown  upon  the  coflSn  in  the  churchyard. 

January.  Rain  and  mud.  The  water  overflowed  from 
the  gutters.  Such  a  winter  had  never  heen  known.  The 
smoke  of  the  factories  was  heaten  hack,  and  fell  in 
malediction  on  the  earth. 

Suzanne  Weiss  has  gone  to  Paris  to  stay  with  a  cousin, 
and  with  her  all  the  gaiety  of  Friedensbach  has  departed. 

And  the  wool  trade  is  depressed.  Monsieur  Bohler 
is  in  a  savage  temper.  In  the  schoolroom  the  work  goes 
on  according  to  the  prescribed  program:  translation  of 
Horace,  Livy,  Tacitus,  Herodotus,  and  Plato,  study  of  the 
French  Revolution,  readings  in  Racine,  Bossuet,  and 
Voltaire,  after  which  Jean  seizes  his  violoncello  and 
Rene  his  expanders.  For  Rene  wants  to  be  an  officer, 
and  he  is  bent  on  developing  his  muscles.  He  is  now  at 
the  fourteenth  exercise  in  his  gymnastic  treatise.  For 
an  hour  every  evening  he  works  at  his  torso,  throws  his 
arms  backward  and  his  legs  forward,  lifts  weights  twenty 
and  thirty  times  in  succession.  The  two  brothers 
wrangle,  their  nerves  on  edge: 

"When  will  you  stop  that  caterwauling  with  your 
'cello?  " 

"  When  you  stop  making  faces  and  squatting  on  your 
heels." 

"  Anyhow,  we  shan't  drive  the  Germans  out  of  Alsace 
by  playing  the  'cello." 

"Little  idiot!" 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  167 

"Big  idiot!" 

The  conversation  continues  on  these  lines  till  the 
father's  step  is  heard,  and  silence  falls  on  the  pair. 

In  the  evening  the  family  sit  in  the  little  drawing- 
room.  On  one  occasion  the  two  boys  had  been  told  to 
write  a  few  lines  on  this  subject:  My  First  Literary  Emo- 
tion. They  scanned  the  book-shelves  feverishly,  glanc- 
ing at  the  childish  books  now  despised,  the  books  of  ad- 
venture, of  science,  and  of  sentiment.  On  the  upper 
shelf  are  the  volumes  the  boys  are  forbidden  to  open, 
whose  titles  they  may  not  even  read.  .  .  .  Madame  Boh- 
ler  is  writing  letters.  Her  husband  smokes  behind  his 
newspaper.  The  intermittent  smoke,  the  scratching  of 
the  busy  pen,  the  flutter  of  a  page,  the  tick-tack  of  the 
clock,  accentuate  the  tranquillity  of  the  warm  room. 
Jean  and  Rene  in  their  turn  sit  down  to  write,  groan- 
ing, erasing,  making  fair  copies.  At  last  they  have  fin- 
ished. 

"  Show  me  what  you  have  written,"  says  Monsieur 
Bohler  suddenly. 

"  Please  don't  read  it  aloud !  "  the  two  boys  implore. 

"  What  nonsense !     Jean's  first." 

"  *  A  few  pages  of  my  first  history  book  will  linger  in 
my  mind  as  long  as  I  live.  The  mission  of  Peter  the 
Hermit,  the  crowd,  carried  away  by  him,  crying,  "  God 
wills  it!  "  all,  careless  of  their  lives,  burning  with  aveng- 
ing zeal,  leaving  family,  home,  and  country  to  march 
against  the  Infidel.  The  story  filled  me  with  enthusiasm, 
gave  me  sublime  ideas.     I  ^azed  at  the  illustration  in  the 


168  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

text  for  minutes  together;  it  showed  a  rocky  path,  an 
arid  land,  an  interminable  procession  of  men  going  to 
battle  in  a  far-off  country.  At  this  time  —  I  was  eight 
years  old  —  I  often  went  off  with  a  little  bread  in  a  wal- 
let. I  went  on  the  highroad,  I  walked,  artlessly  offering 
the  sacrifice  of  my  life,  until  the  moment  when  our 
nurse  overtook  me  and  shook  me  vigorously.  ...  A 
literary  emotion  was  born  of  the  association  of  ideas.  At 
eight  years  old  I  already  expected  the  French  every 
day;  I  saw  them  on  one  of  the  peaks  of  the  Vosges, 
crying,  "  God  wills  it !  "  and  this  was  so  glorious  that 
when  I  turned  to  my  history  again  I  put  a  beauty  into 
it  which  was  absent  from  the  dry  text.' " 

Monsieur  Bohler  was  silent.  It  was  Madame  Bohler 
who  said: 

"  Bravo,  Jean !     Now  for  Rene's  effort." 

" '  As  long  as  I  live  I  shall  always  maintain  that 
Jules  Verne  is  wonderful.  He  is  literary  because  he  sug- 
gests such  masses  of  things.  .  .  .  Does  he  write  well? 
...  I  don't  know,  but  I  do  know  that  he  ennobles  one. 
With  him  one  travels  to  the  moon,  one  journeys  twenty 
thousand  leagues  beneath  the  sea,  one  invents  machines. 
All  modern  inventions  (submarines,  motor-cars,  wire- 
less telegraphy)  are  in  Jules  Verne.  These  things  are 
literary,  because  to  mount  through  space,  to  plunge  under 
the  sea,  to  hover  over  worlds,  excites  emotion,  makes 
one  dream,  feeds  the  imagination.  And,  above  all,  they 
are  literary  because  with  those  contraptions  we  shall  re- 
cover Alsace-Lorraine.' " 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  169 

There  was  a  peal  of  laughter  at  the  conclusion  of  this 
essay.  Rene  reddened  angrily.  He  thought  he  was 
being  ridiculed. 

"  He  is  wonderful.  Mine  is  the  best.  .  .  .  Besides,  I 
don't  know  what  you  mean  by  literary.  ...  I  am  scien- 
tific." 

Madame  Bohler  soothed  his  irritation  with  a  word. 

"  Come,  come ;  we  are  not  ridiculing  you  when  we 
laugh.  Your  composition  is  very  good.  Kiss  me,  my 
sons,  and  go  to  bed." 

The  door  closes.  The  parents  look  at  each  other  with 
emotion.  Monsieur  Bohler,  by  no  means  optimistic  as 
a  rule,  says: 

"  Our  boys  are  splendid.  .  .  .  And  when  I  say  our 
boys,  I  am  speaking  generally.  I  hear  echoes  of  the 
same  sort  everywhere.  There  is  something  in  their 
hearts.  They  have  muscles.  Yes,  yes,  Kummel  and 
Co.  must  look  out  for  themselves!  " 

"  I  hope  you  are  not  very  much  bored  here.  Monsieur 
Reymond?  "  Madame  Bohler  would  say  occasionally. 

"  Not  in  the  least,  Madame." 

Reymond's  reply  is  not  strictly  true.  This  winter  has 
seemed  much  longer  to  him  than  the  first.  Friedensbach 
has  given  up  all  its  secrets  to  him;  the  old  people  have 
told  him  all  their  stories.  Where  is  that  heroic  Alsace 
he  expected  to  discover? 

Kummel  undertakes  to  put  a  little  spice  into  this 
drowsy  peace.    He  has  a  visitor,  his  brother,  Walther 


170  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

Kummel,  who  lives  at  Nancy,  Paris,  Brussels,  Cologne, 
and  Berlin,  one  month  here  and  another  there,  for  his 
business  makes  it  necessary  that  he  should  travel  a  good 
deal.  What  is  that  business?  .  .  .  Strasburg  and  Metz 
see  him  frequently,  as  do  Belfort  and  Epinal,  the  frontier 
towns  for  choice.  This  Walther  Kummel  speaks  English, 
Italian,  and  French  as  fluently  as  his  mother-tongue. 
Agreeable,  insinuating,  his  cigar-case  always  well 
stocked,  he  sees  a  great  many  people,  and  is  an  adept  in 
making  them  talk.  People  say  of  him:  "He  is  a  charm- 
ing person." 

So  he  has  come  to  Friedensbach  to  visit  his  brother, 
his  seven  nephews  and  nieces,  his  sister-in-law,  Anna 
Kummel,  who  always  wears  an  embroidered  apron  over 
her  black  skirt,  and  sings  so  sweetly  in  her  kitchen: 
Mein  Herz  ist  ein  Bienenhaus,  .  .  .  For  a  few  days  his 
bony  head,  his  keen,  shifty  eyes,  and  his  flat  cheeks,  were 
much  in  evidence.  The  magistrate  greeted  him  with  a 
low  bow,  the  policeman  with  one  still  lower.  Then  he 
went  off"  to  Paris,  where  business  was  waiting  for  him. 
Schoolmaster  Kummel,  it  may  be  presumed,  refreshed 
himself  at  this  fountain,  for  after  his  brother's  departure 
his  patriotism  was  exacerbated,  as  if  in  obedience  to 
orders. 

One  morning,  when  Reymond  had  been  unable  to 
attend  during  his  pupils'  lesson  with  Kummel,  he  found 
them  furious,  brandishing  a  paper  and  exclaiming  both 
at  once: 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  171 

"  Just  read  that,  Monsieur !     We  are  to  translate  it 
into  German.     It's  disgusting!  " 
Reymond  took  the  paper  and  read: 

"'Germany  the  Centre  of  Europe. 

" '  Not  only  by  her  geographical  situation,  but  also  by 
her  moral  importance,  our  dear  country  is  the  centre  of 
Europe.  When  we  consider  our  neighbours,  we  find  in 
them  faults  so  characteristic  as  to  be  undeniable.  The 
English  are  incapable  of  producing  scientists,  whereas 
our  country  justly  prides  herself  on  a  host  of  chemists, 
physicists,  and  mathematicians  of  the  highest  talent.  Do 
not  our  Universities  shed  rays  of  light  even  in  the  re- 
motest regions  of  the  earth?  It  must  be  admitted  that  the 
French  and  the  Belgians  have  a  certain  spirit  of  invention. 
But  their  frivolity  and  indifference  prevent  them  from 
following  up  their  discoveries  and  profiting  by  them. 
If  they  had  our  depth  of  character  they  would  approxi- 
mate somewhat  to  this  German  people  to  whom  you  be- 
long. Whereas  in  Germany  every  official,  from  the  high- 
est to  the  lowest,  does  his  duty,  we  see  among  our  neigh- 
bours the  greatest  disorder  in  the  whole  administration, 
and  an  absolute  lack  of  patriotism.  The  Italians  are  too 
passionate  to  be  able  to  judge  calmly.  Reason,  the 
supreme  quality  which  governs  all  our  enterprises,  can- 
not be  the  guide  of  our  impetuous  neighbours. 

" '  We  scarcely  dare  to  dwell  upon  the  ignorance  and 
idleness  of  the  Russians,  and  of  the  negligence  which 


172  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

reigns  throughout  their  vast  empire!  These  various  de- 
fects are  so  essential  that  the  civilization  of  the  nation 
is  totally  arrested  thereby,  and  that  their  moral  level  will 
never  come  up  to  ours  unless  they  seek  inspiration  in  our 
institutions.  Then  that  new  Europe  of  which  Germany 
will  be  more  than  ever  the  heart,  the  vital  organ,  will 
march  towards  progress.  And  we  shall  sing  once  more: 
Deutschland  ilber  AllesF  " 

Reymond  only  asked: 

"Did  you  say  anything?" 

"  No,  indeed.     Father  has  forbidden  us  to  argue." 

"He's  quite  right.  But  show  him  this  paper  all  the 
same." 

That  very  evening,  after  his  lesson,  Reymond  tackled 
Kummel. 

"  Monsieur,  I  have  read  the  paper  you  dictated  to  my 
pupils.  Don't  you  think  it  would  be  better  to  abstain 
from  these  controversial  ...  or  shall  we  say  political 
themes?  Yours  is  the  greatest  nation  on  earth,  we  know. 
Is  it  necessary  .  .  ." 

Kummel  did  not  wait  for  the  conclusion  of  the  sen- 
tence. His  face  was  flushed.  The  hair  bristled  on  his 
pointed  skull.  His  eyes  gleamed  with  prophetic  bril- 
liance behind  his  spectacles. 

"  Pardon  me,  it  is  our  duty  to  proclaim  the  truth  urhi 
et  orbi,  as  you  professors  of  Latin  would  say.  Do  not  let 
us  confine  ourselves  to  generalizations.  I  will  deal  with 
facts.     In  Germany  the  yearly  birth-rate  is  one  million 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  173 

eight  hundred  thousand.  In  France  it  falls  annually  at 
the  rate  of  one  hundred  thousand.  What  does  this  mean 
but  that  the  great  nation,  France,  the  boss  (don't  you 
say?)  of  the  Universe,  is  terribly  afraid  to  live,  as  one 
of  our  great  writers  has  well  said?  .  .  .  Well,  travel, 
open  your  eyes,  cross  our  frontier.  ...  As  soon  as  you 
get  to  Belfort  everything  is  dirty.  Newspapers  and 
orange-peel  on  the  ground,  windows  dim  with  dust.  And 
everywhere  bare-headed  women,  '  creatures '  as  you  call 
them.  The  industry  is  childish,  the  trade  patriarchal. 
On  the  whole,  the  conception  of  things  is  mediaeval. 

"I  saw  the  Alsace  we  delivered  from  the  champions 
of  civilization.  What  neglect!  What  disorder!  Yes, 
we  must  tell  the  truth.  England  is  the  leech  of  the  world. 
She  must  be  crushed.  Italy  plays  the  guitar,  Spain 
the  mandoline.  Russia?  .  .  .  She  has  a  louse  on  every 
hair !  Austria  is  something,  thanks  to  us.  And  the  poor 
Alsatian  standing  on  his  ladder  looks  out  beyond  the 
Vosges.  He  says:  *  Sister  Anne,  Sister  Anne,  do  you 
see  anything  coming?  '  And  I  reply:  '  Nothing  but  dis- 
order, anarchy,  sensuality,  quarrels,  alcohol,  and  the 
like.'     That  is  what  they  call  Liberty. 

"  We  Germans  desire  to  regenerate  the  world,  to  intro- 
duce civilization  and  happiness.  For  we  have  pity  on  the 
world.  This  is  the  true  Idealismus,  Listen  to  what  one 
of  our  most  cultured  men  has  to  say  on  this  subject.  I 
cut  it  out  of  my  newspaper.  'We  Germans  defend  the 
ideal  of  the  fraternity  of  nations,  of  the  world-State 
which  shall  embrace  all  humanity,  the  super-German, 


174  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

the  eternal-human,  the  cosmic,  the  infinite  aspiration  to- 
wards the  holy  empire  of  living  order  in  a  free  organi- 
zation, the  symphony  of  the  forces  of  life  in  the  heart  of 
nations.  Now,  this  is  no  new  ideal,  but  the  most  ancient 
of  all,  universally  human  and  cosmic,  the  Oriental,  medi- 
aeval, and  Romanesque  ideal  of  one  in  all,  of  unity  in 
number  and  number  in  unity.  .  .  .  Germany  is  the  sole 
faithful  disciple  of  this  Absolute,  which  we  shall  impose 
by  persuasion,  if  heads  are  not  too  hard,  and  by  force  if 
persuasion  fails.' 

"There!     Do  you  understand  now?" 

The  hair  still  bristled  on  the  pointed  skull. 

"  Do  you  understand?  "  repeated  the  pedagogue,  with 
a  sort  of  sacred  fury. 

What  could  Reymond  reply?  It  is  impossible  to  argue 
against  faith.     He  murmured:     "  It's  magnificent." 

The  schoolmaster  smiled. 

"  The  time  is  at  hand." 

That  evening  they  went  no  further. 

Monsieur  Bohler  held  the  famous  paper  in  his  hand; 
he  settled  his  glasses  on  his  nose,  and  began  to  read  with 
a  severe,  authoritative  air.  All  of  a  sudden  he  broke  into 
a  hearty  laugh,  very  unusual  with  him. 

"  It's  mystical  delirium.  ...  I  will  give  this  paper 
to  my  friends  of  France;  it's  worth  while  to  read  it. 
Pride  is  turning  their  heads.  A  kind  of  intoxication. 
.  .  .  Well,  let  them  eat,  devour,  digest  nations;  they 
will  die  of  it  in  the  end." 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  175 

Monsieur  Bohler  rubbed  his  hands. 

Weiss's  eldest  son  Frangois,  who  was  studying  law  at 
Strasburg,  and  was  also  attending  a  course  at  the  Faculty 
of  Letters  in  an  inquiring  spirit,  came  home  to  spend 
Sunday  with  his  family.  At  dinner,  between  the  tart 
and  the  coffee,  Kummel's  theme  was  read  aloud.  The 
only  one  of  the  guests  —  Reymond  was  present,  also  the 
chemist  Gangloff,  and  the  engineer  Ballenhofer  —  who 
did  not  smile  was  Frangois  Weiss.  And  he  explained 
why. 

"You  seem  surprised?  That's  the  sort  of  stuff  they 
feed  us  on  at  the  University." 

As  they  looked  incredulous,  he  rose,  and  went  to  fetch 
from  his  room  a  book  called  Gedanken  und  Wahrneh- 
mungen,  by  the  novelist  G.  Grober.  He  opened  it  and 
read :  "  '  The  Englishman  is  a  prosaic  boor,  the  Ameri- 
can a  vile  commercialist,  the  Spaniard  a  degenerate,  the 
Italian  a  voluptuary  and  idler,  the  Frenchman  a  de- 
bauchee, a  frivolous  and  superficial  trifler.'  And  he  goes 
on  in  this  strain  page  after  page,  to  prove  that  Germany 
is  the  only  strong  nation,  that  there  is  no  science  but 
German  science,  no  philosophy  and  no  religion  save 
German  philosophy  and  German  religion." 

FranQois  Weiss  continued: 

"  I  have  heard  our  professors  dozens  of  times  engaged 
on  the  ridiculous  task  of  waging  war  upon  French  Chris- 
tian names,  and  formally  denying  the  existence  of  a 
French  literature  and  French  poetry.  Victor  Hugo  says 
nothing  in  a  great  many  words.     Chateaubriand  is  a 


176  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

bombastic  rhetorician.  There  is  only  one  French  writer 
worthy  of  attention,  and  he,  again,  is  a  Swiss  of  German 
affinities,  J.  J.  Rousseau.  They  assert  habitually  that 
the  French  don't  know  their  own  language  and  pronounce 
it  badly;  that  only  the  Germans  speak  French  correctly, 
because  they  know  grammar  and  phonetics.  .  .  .  The 
favourite  pastime  of  these  gentlemen,  with  only  one  or 
two  exceptions,  is  to  rearrange  the  map  of  the  world  and 
annex  the  territory  of  others.  And  they  all  grovel  before 
the  State.  The  State  is  their  God.  It  possesses  every 
right,  that  of  life  and  death  included.  One  of  my  Pro- 
fessors of  Law  said  the  other  day  to  one  of  my  fellow- 
students,  whom  he  took  for  an  Alsatian :  '  Why  do  you 
write  the  word  State  with  a  small  letter?  It  is  evident 
that  you  are  an  Alsatian,  and  that,  like  all  Frenchmen, 
you  have  no  conception  at  all  of  the  State  {Sie  haben 
keinen  Begriff  vom  Staat.)'  The  amusing  part  of  the 
business  was  that  the  student  to  whom  this  reproof  was 
addressed  was  a  Badener.  I  can  tell  you,  we  are  pretty 
well  stifled  in  that  atmosphere  of  pedants." 

Weiss  listened  to  his  son  with  sparkling  eyes.     Sud- 
denly, raising  his  glass,  he  cried: 

"  Gentlemen,  let  us  drink  to  Kummel  and  his  coadju- . 
tors.  .  .  .  May  their  monomania  increase  and  multiply! 
It  is  they  who  will  get  Alsace  back  for  us!  " 

"Meanwhile  we  must  bow  our  backs  and  count  the 
blows,"  said  Gangloff. 

Weiss  was  not  to  be  put  off. 

"Here's  Kummel's  health!" 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  177 

And  he  emptied  his  glass,  smacking  his  lips. 

February.  The  winds  contend  with  each  other  at  the 
crossways  of  the  valleys.  It  snows,  it  freezes,  and  it 
thaws.  The  peaks  are  white,  the  slopes  grey,  the 
meadows  by  the  river  are  green. 

The  Venetian  blinds  are  down  today.  They  are  low- 
ered when  the  helmeted  regiments  pass,  the  tourists  with 
thick  calves,  the  Kreisdirektor  going  his  rounds.  Be- 
hind these  blinds,  with  their  slanting  slats  —  a  hundred 
little  passages  for  the  eye  —  there  are  looks  alternately 
mocking  and  merry,  or  mournful  when  the  parish  priest 
advances  under  a  canopy,  bearing  the  Host,  or.  when 
some  old  inhabitant  is  borne  along  in  his  black  coffin. 
Today  behind  the  blinds  eager  eyes,  and  even  the  eyes 
of  the  pious,  contemplate  sin.  Old  Schmoler  and  Jacob- 
ine  shake  their  heads,  blame,  condemn,  and  nevertheless 
peep  out  at  those  who  pass  and  flaunt  themselves  below. 

After  all  the  fog  and  rain,  the  Carnival  is  shaking  its 
bells.  There  are  masks  over  faces,  dresses  made  for 
more  generous  contours  float  over  flat  hips,  curling  wings 
hang  over  ill-shaven  cheeks.  Karcher,  a  libidinous  old 
sinner,  is  got  up  as  a  pregnant  woman,  the  Badecker  boys 
are  Moors,  Minna  of  the  mill  is  a  Louis  XV.  page.  They 
gesticulate  and  grimace,  and  gambol,  and  dance;  they  go 
into  cafes  whence  the  screams  of  romping  girls  ring  out; 
they  form  processions  behind  the  big  drum  and  the  flute. 
One  beats  a  drum  and  another  shakes  a  rattle.  There 
are  confetti  and  coloured  streamers,  false  noses  and 
false  hair,  false  girls  and  false  boys,  false  ogling  in  a 


178  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

false  light.  A  bear  passes,  then  a  great  lady  —  purple 
stockings,  Herculean  shoulders,  a  red  parasol,  a  hat  the 
shape  of  a  glass  shade  —  then  a  gorilla  and  his  lady  wife. 
Mingling  in  the  crowd  with  upturned  moustaches  and 
watchful  eyes  are  police  ofl&cers,  keeping  a  look-out  for 
forbidden  colours  and  uniforms;  they  have  arrested  a 
French  Cuirassier.  What  a  tumult  in  the  darkness! 
Straining  on  the  bellrope,  the  forester  keeps  on  ringing 
the  curfew.  Now  he  is  coming  out  of  the  schoolhouse; 
he  has  a  false  nose  adorned  with  three  warts;  stumbling 
and  zigzagging,  seeking  refuge  in  the  ditches  to  avoid 
imaginary  vehicles,  jovial  and  garrulous,  he  makes  his 
way  home.  Grumbach  is  at  his  own  house;  he  has  al- 
ready given  his  fifty-second  kick  to  the  obstinately  closed 
door.  .  .  .  And  now  the  moon,  invisible  for  weeks,  shows 
her  astonished  face  between  the  clouds. 

"After  all,"  says  Weiss  to  Reymond,  "we  must  have 
a  little  frolic  from  time  to  time.  Our  boys  blow  whistles 
for  want  of  something  better  to  do.  We  live  meanly. 
We  languish." 

On  the  mountains  the  white  headgear  of  winter  is  dis- 
appearing. Now  it  is  merely  a  crown.  But  in  the  hol- 
lows of  the  ravines  there  are  still  lines  and  streaks  of 
snow  which  trace  open  jaws,  wriggling  adders,  clutching 
claws.  When  one  gets  up  there  everything  is  gurgling 
and  rushing,  and  one  cannot  count  all  the  little  rivulets 
which  dash  themselves  madly  against  the  foot  of  the  rock. 
Nature  puts  on  an  heroic  and  strenuous  ugliness.  There 
is  a  warm  breath  between  two  cold  blasts.    The  first 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  179 

sap  stirs  in  the  alders.  A  tinge  of  life  appears  on  the 
rain-washed  branches. 

Seppi  the  octogenarian  has  opened  his  door.  Another 
spring?  He  turns  his  hairy  ear  to  listen.  No,  he  must 
wait  a  little  longer.     He  goes  to  bed  again. 

The  next  day,  as  the  dog  was  whining  behind  the  door, 
a  neighbour  entered.  Seppi  was  lying  very  still  on  his 
bed.  One  arm  was  under  his  head,  the  other  was  laid 
quietly  on  the  counterpane.  Noiselessly,  and  without 
useless  violence,  Death  came  down  the  wide  chimney;  it 
made  but  one  bound  from  the  hearth  to  the  brow  of  Seppi, 
who  heaved  a  sigh.  Two  old  cousins,  heiresses  to  the 
little  house  and  garden,  installed  themselves  in  the  room, 
where  they  murmured  litanies  piously  before  falling  to 
sleep  under  the  light  of  the  wax  taper,  which  can  hardly 
distinguish  between  the  living  and  the  dead. 

As  a  child,  Seppi  sat  upon  the  benches  of  that  school 
facing  the  church.  As  a  young  man,  he  had  many  loves. 
One  day  he  appeared  in  the  square  in  a  fine  Grenadier 
uniform.  How  he  fought  for  his  country!  .  .  ,  When 
vanquished,  he  retired  to  the  mountain  in  company  with 
the  goats,  to  the  mountain  with  the  roseate  earth.  To 
this  earth  from  which  he  sprang  the  shepherd  re- 
turns.- 

This  the  bell  explains  to  the  echoes  which  wait  for 
every  noise  that  passes.  The  rocks  have  heard  it,  those 
rounded  summits  which  Seppi  loved.  Never  was  the 
voice  of  the  bell  more  caressing.  Is  it  because  the  sexton 
is  old,  and  is  thinking  of  Seppi  as  he  pulls  the  rope? 


180  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

The  knell  of  the  veteran  is  sad  as  exile,  sweet  as  a  lull- 
aby, grand  as  a  battle.  A  man  is  born,  a  man  is  dead, 
the  bell  speaks;  it  is  always  the  same  bell,  always  the 
same  sound,  and  yet  it  is  never  the  same  thing.  It  does 
not  toll  for  a  renegade  as  it  tolls  for  Seppi,  because  an  old 
sexton  is  at  the  foot  of  the  tower,  because  an  emotion 
passes  from  his  heart  to  his  arms,  and  from  his  arms 
climbs  up  the  rope,  and  runs  in  vibrations  round  the 
brass,  so  that  it  is  his  own  heart  which  the  ringer  sways 
in  the  cage  of  the  bell. 

The  blinds  are  drawn  down  in  the  houses.  Those  who 
have  stayed  at  home  —  women  and  children  —  watch  the 
long  procession.  What  a  number  of  old  men !  All  those 
who  fought.  Right  at  the  top  of  the  burial-ground,  in  a 
hollow  of  the  rock,  the  coffin  has  been  lowered.  The  sun 
has  come  out  of  his  cloud-prison  in  its  honour,  and 
careers  in  bluish  rays  along  the  slopes;  the  mounds  seem 
to  be  kneeling  in  the  pleasant  light.  Happy  are  the  dead 
whom  the  earth  receives  with  joy! 

The  interval  between  winter  and  the  real  spring  is 
trying  for  the  ailing.  Kraut,  too,  has  had  enough  of  life. 
It  was  not  a  long  business.  He  was  put  into  a  double 
lead  coffin,  where  he  seems  bored.  As  he  so  often  said 
that  he  wanted  to  go  home,  he  was  taken  to  the  station, 
drawn  by  two  horses.  Must  a  man  die,  then,  in  order  to 
discover  where  his  true  country  is?  Those  who  watch 
behind  the  Venetian  blinds  feel  sorry.  A  worthy  fellow, 
that  Kraut!  If  they  were  all  like  him,  things  would  not 
be  so  bad. 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  181 

So  he  is  borne  away  in  his  double  envelope  of  lead. 
Ofl5cials  are  ranged  before  the  railway  carriage.  The 
police  officers  salute.  The  magistrate  repeats  phrases 
which  he  reads  from  a  sheet  of  paper.  The  little  train 
goes  off,  and  eyes  follow  it  into  the  distance  where  the 
Rhine  flows,  and  beyond,  beyond,  where  green  Thu- 
ringia  stretches  away.  Each  in  his  own  home,  it  is  bet- 
ter thus.  Kraut  has  gone.  This  evening  he  will  be  at 
home. 

During  the  night  a  fresh  wind  has  dried  up  the  roads, 
rolled  away  the  fog,  and  scattered  the  clouds.  The  real 
sun  shows  himself  at  last.  .  .  .  Not  merely  between  two 
showers,  as  for  old  Seppi,  but*  a  sun  which  lies  upon  the 
Black  Forest  in  the  early  morning,  and  from  this  vantage- 
ground  springs  up  high  into  the  skies  and  falls  into  the 
night,  drunk  with  fatigue. 

The  hooter  no  longer  howls  dismally.  As  soon  as  they 
have  passed  the  iron  gates  of  the  factory,  the  workmen 
throw  their  jackets  over  their  shoulders  and  tuck  up 
their  sleeves  in  readiness  to  dig  the  warm  earth.  The 
children,  dancing  in  a  ring,  sing: 

"  Storik !     Storik !     Langabein ! 
Dra'  mi  uf'm  Buckel  heim. 
Wohi?     Wohi? 
In's  Elsass  ni!  " 

(Stork!  stork!  so  long  of  leg! 
Carry  me  home  on  your  back,  I  beg. 
Whither,    whither?    where    would    you    Be? 
Ah!  'tis  Alsace  I  would  see.) 


182  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

From  the  lofty  nest  of  twings  sounds  the  "  bla-bla-bla  " 
which  is  like  the  noise  of  spring-time.  The  male  is  al- 
ready on  the  banks  of  the  Thur,  walking  slowly  and 
sedately  among  the  new  blades  of  grass.  The  old  men 
and  women  are  laughing  at  the  windows.  Alsace  is  her- 
self again,  Alsace  is  regaining  confidence.  .  .  .  What 
does  it  mean?  The  stork  on  her  nest!  .  .  .  Joining 
hands  round  the  fountain,  in  the  new  rays  of  sunshine 
that  bathe  the  square,  the  children  shout  at  the  top  of 
their  voices: 

"...  Storik!     Storik!     Langabein!  " 

Only  the  geese  seem  ill-pleased.  Those  storks  disgust 
them  with  their  mania  for  throning  it  on  the  top  of  the 
gables,  and  their  disdainful  fashion  of  lifting  their  feet 
among  the  buttercups  in  the  meadows.  Gathering  to- 
gether below  in  noisy  colloquy,  they  hurl  vulgar  abuse 
at  the  nest  above.  ..."  Bla-bla-bla,"  replies  the  stork, 
contemplating  the  horizon. 

The  forests  are  veiled  in  a  mist  of  green  buds.  How 
fair  is  the  old  land  of  Alsace!  Weiss  has  put  on  his 
summer  mood,  the  colour  of  fine  weather.  He  has  dim- 
ples in  the  hollows  of  his  cheeks,  a  gay  laugh.  He  is 
moved  at  the  sight  of  sprouting  lettuces  and  flowering 
strawberries;  he  lifts  up  his  eyes  to  the  hills. 

The  lilacs  are  already  crowning  the  walls  with  their 
white  or  purple  trusses.  Heavy  perfumes  hover  over 
the  soil.  A  draught  of  beer  under  the  arbour  of  the 
restaurant  is  a  real  satisfaction.    So  thinks  Strocker,  the 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  183 

woodman  with  the  fringe  of  brown  beard,  whose  wife,  a 
red-haired  jade  with  a  squint,  is  playing  him  false  with 
the  miller  of  Randach.  Yes,  it  may  be  so.  His  friends 
at  the  inn  have  told  him  the  whole  story. 

Towards  ten  o'clock  in  the  evening,  the  screams  of  a 
woman  and  children  and  the  crash  of  falling  furniture 
are  heard;  a  vegetable-dish,  a  soup-tureen,  a  bottle,  and 
a  variety  of  plates,  hurtle  from  window  to  pavement. 
It  is  odd  that  men  who  have  to  avenge  their  honour 
always  begin  by  wreaking  vengeance  on  the  crockery! 
The  police  ofl&cers  Sporrmann  and  Taubenspeck  hurry 
up,  attracted  by  the  noise.  The  sight  of  the  green  uni- 
forms redoubles  Strocker's  fury.  Alsace  has  been  sleep- 
ing all  the  winter.     She  is  awaking!     What  screams! 

"  Use,  Schwobe!  Use,  Gottverdammi!  "  Chairs  are 
shattered,  heels  grind  on  the  boards.  In  face  of  the 
hereditary  foe  the  whole  family  offers  a  united  front  — 
even  the  erring  wife,  who  fights  for  the  defence  of  the 
hearth.  The  children  hang  on  to  the  police  officers'  legs 
in  clusters!     What  a  battle! 

At  last  Strocker  is  marched  off,  his  shirt  torn  open, 
his  head  bare,  his  hair  in  wet  strands  on  his  forehead, 
handcuffs  on  his  wrists,  between  the  huge,  perspiring 
Sporrmann  and  Taubenspeck.  For  he  had,  moreover, 
shouted:  "  Viv'  la  France!"  There  is  a  good  score 
against  him.  There  are  sympathetic  eyes  behind  the 
blinds  for  him  who  is  being  carried  off  by  the  men  in 
spiked  helmets.  The  sympathizers  do  not  reason.  It  is 
instinct. 


184  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

Dishevelled  and  battered,  the  red-haired  wife  with  the 
squint  is  leaning  out  of  the  window.  She  is  grateful  to 
her  husband  for  having  thrashed  her  so  soundly.  She 
admires  him.  And  when  she  sees  Strocker  so  grimly 
fettered  she  bursts  into  sobs. 

So  things  go  on:  as  soon  as  the  storks  begin  to  say 
"  bla-bla-bla  "  on  the  edge  of  the  nest,  people  feel  them- 
selves more  pugnacious;  the  blood  becomes  hotter,  the 
brain  more  active,  one  is  nearer  to  the  past.  One  re- 
members that  one's  uncle  fell  in  1870,  that  Cousin  Joseph 
is  in  the  Foreign  Legion.  Then  there  are  the  lilacs,  the 
perfumes,  the  thirst  one  has  to  quench  in  the  arbour.  A 
trifle  will  cause  the  varnish  to  crack,  just  as  we  have 
seen.  This  Strocker  was  born  since  the  annexation;  he 
was  educated  in  the  German  school;  he  served  the  Em- 
peror submissively  and  with  discipline.  One  minute  of 
anger,  of  mad  sincerity,  and  his  lips  cried :  "  Use, 
Schwobe! "  Then,  as  one  always  follows  the  other: 
"  Viv'  la  France!  "  And  all  this  because  of  an  unfaith- 
ful wife.  It  must  be  admitted  that  it  was  rather  in- 
consequent. But  in  a  rage  the  heart  is  poured  out  pell- 
mell,  and  emptied  of  all  that  is  in  it. 

The  Kilhe,  the  Friedensbach  festival,  will  be  affected 
by  the  four  months  of  imprisonment  awarded  to  Strocker. 
If  there  is  one  festival  above  all  others  when  the  natives 
like  to  feel  themselves  at  home  it  is  that.  The  old  houses 
about  the  square  offer  the  same  setting  as  ever.  The 
Kougelhopfs  are  baked  with  the  flour  of  the  country,  the 
wines  drunk  have  the  flavour  of  their  brand,  the  dancing- 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  185 

floor  is  laid  with  pinewood  from  the  neighbouring  forest. 
The  music  is  furnished  by  the  firemen,  who  wear  the  caps 
and  white  gaiters  of  former  days,  and  have  drum-majors 
and  buglers.  .  .  .  Trombones  snort  and  petticoats 
whirl.     Yoo  and  yoo  and  yoo! 

The  magistrate  passes,  arm-in-arm  with  the  fair-haired 
wife  he  has  brought  from  Frankfort.  What  a  lesson  for 
Suzanne!  Kummel  instals  his  brood  on  the  prancing 
horses  of  the  merry-go-round.  The  police  officers  prowl 
about,  with  watchful  eyes,  and  ears  alert.  And  Tauben- 
speck  inspects  the  flags:  red  and  white,  red  and  white. 
The  devil  take  this  red  and  white!  .  .  . 

Truly,  if  any  official  should  be  hovering  round  one  of 
the  girls  of  Friedensbach,  he  will  do  well  in  future  not  to 
wander  alone  at  night  in  the  sunk  roads.  This  is  not  even 
allowed  in  the  case  of  lads  from  the  neighbouring  vil- 
lages. Did  not  Bader  last  year  bite  off  the  end  of  a 
Ranspach  rival's  nose?  Each  man  has  his  rights  and  his 
possessions.  What  sort  of  thing  would  one  be  if  one  did 
not  defend  the  bright-eyed  girls  from  strangers?  Nest- 
ling in  the  depths  of  their  valleys,  these  Vosgians  have 
preserved  their  antique  freshness  of  soul.  They  are 
sincere  and  brutal.  They  drink  their  wine;  they  eat  their 
Kougelhopf;  the  gun  thunders;  the  petticoats  whirl,  yoo, 
yoo! 

Reymond  and  his  pupils  stroll  to  and  fro  in  the  square 
brilliant  with  lime-light. 

"It's  late;  we  must  go  in.  Your  parents  won't  be 
pleased  if  we  stay  out  any  longer," 


186  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

"Oh!  just  a  few  minutes  more,  Monsieur,"  pleads 
Jean.  "  You  know  this  is  the  last  time  I  shall  see  the 
Kilbe." 

A  self-respecting  Kilbe  lasts  two  days.  At  Friedens- 
bach  there  is  the  Kilbe  and  the  Nachkilbe,  during  which 
the  firemen  march  past.  . 

In  front  of  the  buglers  who  are  playing  a  brisk  march, 
the  tinsmith  Flachsberger,  the  captain  of  the  confrater- 
nity, walks  alone,  a  drawn  sword  in  his  hand,  his  apoplec- 
tic face  shining  under  a  helmet  with  a  horsehair  tail. 
Medals  of  various  patterns  jostle  each  other  on  his  broad 
breast.  A  poodle  shaved  in  the  semblance  of  a  lion 
and  two  spaniels  bark  sympathetically  about  him.  The 
fanfare  rings  out  with  an  apocalyptic  blare;  the  trom- 
bones drive  the  panting  buglers  before  them  with  a  vigor- 
ous movement.  The  Staff  officers  follow;  the  banner, 
the  sappers,  ax  on  shoulder;  then  the  hydrant-bearers, 
their  torsoes  entwined  with  ropes  and  hose-pipes,  ar- 
ranged in  quincunxes  either  by  art  or  accident;  the  pas- 
sive and  honorary  members  bring  up  the  rear.  .  .  . 
They  dine  at  the  inn,  Zum  weissen  Lamm.  It  is  a  long 
business.  Hours  pass.  They  come  out  at  last.  An  en- 
tirely new  world  seems  to  offer  itself  to  the  gaze  of  the 
firemen;  the  street-lamps  dance  a  measure  in  which  the 
houses  try  to  take  a  part  by  dilating  their  fagades  after 
the  manner  of  the  bellows  of  a  concertina.  Although 
he  is  buffeted  by  contrary  winds,  Flachsberger  walks  at 
the  head  of  his  troops,  draws  his  sword,  and  vociferates 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  187 

a  "  March !  "  which  makes  the  window-panes  of  Friedens- 
bach  tremble. 

White  gaiters,  French  caps,  buglers  and  drum-major, 
disappear  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  A  shred  of  glory  descends 
upon  the  roofs  of  Friedensbach.  Were  not  those  buglers 
playing  an  air  curiously  like  the  famous 

"II    faut    monter    la-haut,    soldat; 
Soldat,    monte    vite    a    I'assaut." 

(Up  there  must  thou  go,  soldier; 
Soldier,    advance    to    the    attack.) 

The  police  officers  follow  at  a  distance. 

Reymond  listens  to  this  song  of  the  bugles.  Above  the 
roofs,  he  sees  the  slopes  all  golden  with  blossoming 
broom.  He  says  to  old  Schmoler,  who  is  sitting  on  the 
bench  by  the  door: 

"  Your  Alsace  is  a  beautiful  country." 

Schmoler  looks  up. 

"  Yes,  too  beautiful.  .  .  .  There  is  a  price  to  pay  for 
beauty." 


KRAUT'S  successor  has  just  arrived  at  Friedensbach. 
Kroner  was  born  in  a  Wiirtemberg  village.  When? 
It  would  be  hard  to  say.  He  is  tall  and  thin.  He  has 
interminable  arms,  and  hands  like  those  of  a  mummy, 
which  flap  against  his  thighs  when  he  walks;  a  long  neck 
with  a  restless  Adam's  apple ;  a  head  ugly  but  interesting, 
with  a  scanty  beard,  melancholy  eyes,  a  high  arched  fore- 
head. Kroner  is  of  no  definite  age.  He  has  some- 
thing of  the  boy  entering  upon  adolescence  and  of  the 
old  man  who  is  losing  his  hold  on  life. 

At  the  office  Kraut  receives  persons  who  come  to  pay 
taxes  or  receive  certificates  politely.  As  soon  as  the  door 
creaks  on  its  hinges,  he  emerges  from  his  papers  and 
looks  up,  not  affably,  but  conscientiously,  gravely 
humane.  With  the  old  people  he  will  even  occasionally 
speak  French,  which  he  does  fluently.  Any  little  serv- 
ice he  can  render  he  renders,  and  when  he  notes  the 
name  of  a  deceased  person,  he  shakes  his  head  as  if  to 
share  regret. 

This  Kroner  leads  a  lonely  life.  On  Sundays  he  is 
often  to  be  seen  seated  under  the  willows  by  the  river. 
He  also  walks  about  with  his  hands  behind  his  back, 
much  in  sympathy  with  the  terraced  gardens  and  the 
roofs  of  the  little  town,  the  wings  of  which  brush  each 
other.  The  moon  knows  him  well,  and  amuses  herself 
by  drawing  his  comical  figure  upon  the  walls, 

18S 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  189 

It  is  not  unlikely  that  Kroner  writes  verses  in  the 
evening.  What  is  certain  is  that  he  spends  hours  shut 
up  in  his  room  seated  at  his  table,  which  is  pushed  close 
to  the  window:  the  pen  flies,  and  the  meagre  torso 
rocks  as  if  to  mark  the  rhythm  of  syllables.  Suddenly, 
Kroner  will  throw  out  his  arms  and  begin  to  declaim. 
Schiller  and  Lenau  are  his  men.  He  quotes  them. 
Their  terra-cotta  busts  are  enthroned  over  the  piano. 
For  Kroner  has  more  than  one  string  to  his  bow.  After 
his  bath  of  poetry  he  takes  a  bath  of  music.  Holding  his 
head  high  in  the  powerful  passages,  and  bringing  his  nose 
down  to  the  keys  in  the  gentle  melancholy  ones,  the  man 
is  intoxicated  by  the  sounds  that  float  out  on  the  silence 
of  slumbering  Friedensbach.  What  is  he  playing?  The 
Sonata  Pathetique,  after  which  he  mops  his  forehead,  his 
eyes  dim,  his  whole  soul  outpoured.  A  mask  of  Bee- 
thoven contemplates  Kroner  sympathetically.  And  now 
his  fingers  race  over  the  keys  again ;  the  notes  rush  along, 
pressing  one  upon  the  other  with  the  force  of  a  torrent; 
an  invisible  choir  raises  the  song  of  Freude!  Freude! 
(joy!  joy!).  Kroner  throws  himself  into  the  perform- 
ance with  feet  and  hands  and  head  and  shoulders;  the 
shadow  with  its  abrupt  movements  crouches  in  a  corner 
of  the  room,  increases  grotesquely,  invades  the  ceiling. 
Freude!  Freude!  The  flood  spreads  out,  and  becomes 
calmer;  it  is  as  if  the  storm  were  dying  away  behind 
the  mountains,  and  after  it  the  swallows  were  dancing  on 
the  azure  of  a  clear  sky  in  the  freshened  air. 

The  officials  do  not  like  this  Kroner  with  the  pale 


190  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

blue  eyes.  Everything  he  suggests  irritates  them,  and 
everything  they  say  shocks  him.  Kummel  is  sarcastically 
eloquent  with  regard  to  him. 

"  Ah !  he  is  a  flower  of  Wiirtemberg,  a  piece  of  that  old 
German  porcelain  which  was  broken  while  it  reflected  the 
moon.  He's  quite  out  of  date,  poor  Kroner!  His  per- 
sonality is  all  made  up  of  memories  and  theories  of  uni- 
versal brotherhood.  A  musician,  yes,  I  am  bound  to 
admit;  but  no  representative  of  our  German  Fatherland! 
He  ought  to  be  sent  back  to  his  Wiirtemberg  village  to 
listen  to  the  swaying  of  the  pine-trees  in  the  evening.  He 
is  a  man  of  the  stars  and  not  of  German  earth.  Kroner? 
an  evangelical  old  maid!  " 

Kroner  no  longer  talked  much  at  the  table  of  the 
missionaries  of  the  Idea.  He  ate  noiselessly,  a  sign  of 
degeneracy;  he  used  his  tooth -pick  discreetly,  a  sign  of 
neurasthenia;  he  did  not  thump  the  table  with  his 
clenched  fist  to  support  his  arguments,  a  sign  of  con- 
genital weakness.  One  evening,  nevertheless,  when  he 
had  pronounced  the  word  "  kindness,"  a  murmur  rose 
around  him,  a  murmur  very  much  like  a  shout  of  execra- 
tion. Thrusting  a  congested  face  forward,  his  neighbour 
cried:  "Kindness,  kindness?  Non,  Monsieur"  (in 
French).  "Kindness!  We  are  strong  enough  to  dis- 
pense with  this  medicine." 

Once  or  twice  Kroner  had  exchanged  a  few  words  with 
Reymond,  when  they  had  been  left  alone  in  the  dining- 
room  of  the  restaurant. 

One  evening  the  two  men  met  on  the  river-bank.     They 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  191 

walked  along  side  by  side.  The  softness  of  the  air  in- 
vited confidences,  and  Kroner,  true  "  flower  of  Wiirtem- 
berg,"  did  not  fail  to  respond. 

"  I  like  those  two  old  Schmolers,  especially  Madame 
Jacobine,  with  her  cap  so  neatly  tied,  her  well-washed 
cheeks,  and  her  kind  grandmotherly  eyes.  She  reminds 
me  so  much  of  my  mother,  who  is  just  as  simple,  just  as 
pure  of  conscience.  .  .  .  My  father  is  a  postillion.  He 
blows  his  horn  in  the  forests  of  Wiirtemberg.  I  am  his 
true  son.  .  .  .  Ah!  if  you  could  see  our  house  at  the 
corner  of  the  forest  near  the  river  (it  is  because  of  that 
that  I  am  so  fond  of  this  place  where  we  are).  Some- 
thing lies  on  the  roof,  something  even  better  than  a 
stork's  nest:  it  is  peace  and  kindness,  the  wish  to  do  the 
will  of  Heaven.  My  mother  sits  at  the  door,  mending, 
peeling  vegetables,  saying  good-day  to  the  passers-by.  .  .  . 
All  of  a  sudden  the  horn  sounds,  and  the  father  appears 
on  the  seat  of  the  carriage.  He  stops  for  a  moment. 
He  says:  '  Good-day,  mother.'  She  replies:  '  Good-day, 
father.'  They  look  at  each  other-  The  whip  cracks  and 
the  bells  sound  again  in  the  wood.  I  love  my  Wiirtem- 
berg. And  I  love  Alsace  too;  its  frankness,  its  pride. 
Poor  Alsace!  How  hard  we  are  to  her!  .  .  .  Poor 
Alsace!  I  am  a  good  patriot.  Monsieur  Reymond,  you 
may  be  sure.  And  therefore  I  say  also  in  my  distress: 
*Poor  Germany!  '" 

"Why  so?" 

Kroner  made  no  reply. 

Old  Schmoler  would  often  say: 


192  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

"Monsieur  Kroner?  .  .  .  He's  the  sort  of  German 
they  used  to  make  in  the  time  of  my  father." 

Hammer,  the  greengrocer,  who  heard  a  customer  de- 
claiming against  the  Schwobs  the  other  day,  held  his 
tongue  prudently.     Finally  he  said: 

"  As  for  me,  as  long  as  I  sell  my  vegetables,  it's  all  one 
to  me!  .  .  .  Let  the  bigwigs  quarrel;  it's  their  business. 
We  shall  always  be  the  victims." 

Weiss,  to  whom  Reymond  repeated  these  words,  re- 
plied : 

"  In  Alsace,  we  men,  like  others,  are  men  with  stomachs 
and  purses.  Some  are  discouraged.  We  have  been 
waiting  so  long.  But  we  must  react,  react.  On  Sunday, 
the  14th  of  July,  I  will  take  you  to  Belfort.  There  we 
will  forget  Hammer  and  his  vegetables." 

In  the  faint  light  that  precedes  the  dawn,  they  were 
standing  in  a  crowded  railway-carriage  with  sleepy  eyes 
and  grey  complexions.  The  immensely  long  train  was 
running  through  the  deserted  fields.  Occasionally  they 
passed  a  station,  dark  groups  of  waiting  people,  the 
confused  noise  one  hears  when  half  awake,  lamps  still 
burning  in  the  waiting-rooms;  there  is  a  shrill  whistle. 
.  .  .  The  train  creaks,  the  joltings  become  regular;  they 
roll  on,  on.  .  .  .  And  suddenly  the  sun  breaks  through. 
The  travellers  raise  their  heads,  resuscitated,  and  look 
out  at  the  gold  of  the  flowers,  the  silver  of  the  dewdrops, 
the  oblique  scarf  of  sunbeams  under  the  orchards,  a  spire 
soaring  into  the  light.    Alsace  displays  herself  fully, 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  193 

that  the  eyes  which  behold  her  may  bear  away  her  liv- 
ing image  and  lay  it  in  the  folds  of  the  lost  flag. 

Weiss  looks  with  respect  at  all  the  unknown  folks 
packed  into  the  carriage;  and  behind  this  carriage  there 
are  dozens  of  others,  equally  crowded;  after  this  train 
there  will  be  other  trains;  on  the  roads  leading  from 
country  towns,  villages,  hamlets,  and  isolated  farms, 
there  are  carts  in  which  people  are  standing,  holding 
each  other  round  the  waist  so  as  not  to  fall,  and  where 
the  black  bows  dance  on  the  fair  heads  of  the  women; 
there  are  lads  bending  over  the  handle-bars  of  tinkling 
bicycles;  there  are  whole  families  on  foot,  old  men,  par- 
ents, children  holding  each  other  by  the  hand,  their  round 
cheeks  on  a  level  with  the  ears  of  corn;  an  emigrant 
tribe,  a  whole  race,  obeying  some  mysterious  call.  And 
Weiss  says  to  Reymond: 

"We  slept  through  the  winter.  Look  at  this  awaken- 
ing." 

A  wag  calls  out  suddenly:  "Long  live  .  .  .  long  live 
rice  soup!  "  A  laugh  runs  through  the  carriage.  Fired 
by  success,  the  wag  continues  to  work  the  vein.  "  Long 
live  ,  .  .  banana!  Long  live  .  .  .  raspberry!  "  The 
same  huge  laugh  greets  each  sally.  The  company  lays 
aside  its  reserve.  Not  entirely,  however,  for  there  are 
in  this  train  persons  only  too  well  known  to  them,  who 
have  notebooks  and  pencils  and  good  memories  into  the 
bargain.  Visitors  know  they  will  be  watched,  and  lis- 
tened to,  and  followed  step  by  step  till  the  end  of  the 
pilgrimage.  '  Chins  are  thrust  out  furtively  at  the  fat 


194  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

man  in  the  grey  suit,  and  the  gentlemen  with  scars  on 
their  faces  who  speak  French,  and  are  officers  in  mufti 
from  the  garrison  at  Mulhouse.  Even  the  wag  refrains 
from  further  demonstrations. 

Alt-Miinsterol !  ...  A  bearded  police  officer,  flanked 
by  a  police  inspector,  passes  from  compartment  to  com- 
partment, scrutinizes,  questions,  and  makes  notes.  It 
seems  as  if  the  authorities  were  determined  to  prove 
themselves  intrusive,  harassing,  and  hostile  to  liberty  to 
the  last  moment. 

"Where  are  you  going?  .  .  .  Why?  .  .  .  Have  you 
friends  at  Belfort?  " 

"  Fertig!  "  (Finished.)  The  train  starts  again.  The 
human  cattle  has  been  checked. 

"  It  was  here,"  explained  Weiss  to  Reymond,  "  that 
a  compatriot  of  yours,  a  young  doctor  from  Lausanne, 
who  thought  he  was  already  on  the  right  side,  called  out, 
'  Long  live  France !  '  A  spy  pulled  the  cord  of  the 
alarm-signal,  and  the  train  stopped  fifty  yards  from  the 
frontier.  .  .  .  Six  months'  imprisonment!  However, 
he  only  did  three,  thanks  to  the  intervention  of  old 
Pastor  Ort  of  Mulhouse.  .  .  .  Now  we  are  safe!  " 

They  hurried  to  the  doors.  France!  They  were  al- 
most surprised  to  see  trees  like  any  other  trees,  a  river 
with  dirty  waters,  white  mile-stones,  a  dusty  road. 
France!  There  were  no  shouts,  no  songs.  But  there 
was  a  sense  of  having  laid  aside  the  yoke.  There  was  no 
one  to  ask:  "Where  are  you  going?  Why?  For  how 
long?  "    Every  one  felt  relieved,  breathed  more  freely. 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  195 

There  was  an  inclination  to  shake  hands,  to  talk  in  order 
to  hear  if  the  voice  had  not  changed  its  tone.  And,  in 
fact,  every  one  began  to  talk  and  to  laugh.  Strangers 
who  had  been  staring  at  each  other  mutely,  like  china 
dogs,  winked,  became  animated,  offered  each  other  a 
cigarette. 

The  Customs  officers  of  Petit-Croix  had  been  notified 
that  they  were  not  to  inspect  Alsatian  baskets  too  rigor- 
ously, and  everybody  passed  through  without  interroga- 
tion or  frowns,  the  fat  man  in  the  grey  suit  and  the 
scarred  officer  included.  In  the  waiting-room,  where  the 
stream  spread  out,  a  lad  presented  the  French  flag,  a 
band  played  the  Marseillaise.  Every  hat  was  removed, 
even  those  of  the  fat  man  and  the  scarred  officers  and 
the  crowd  filed  past  the  colours  which  were  dipped  to 
salute  Alsace,  past  the  wind  instruments  which  blared 
forth  a  call  to  arms.  The  visitors  felt  happy.  Hearts 
were  singing.     Old  people  pressed  each  other's  hands. 

Here  are  the  first  French  soldiers:  laughing  eyes,  sup- 
ple gestures;  none  of  that  stiffness,  those  clicking  heels, 
that  haughtiness,  that  harsh  invective  .  .  .  these  soldiers 
are  men.  An  Adjutant  returns  their  salute  in  friendly 
fashion;  they  look  at  each  other  confidingly.  .  .  .  No 
doubt  there  are  reprehensible  things  to  be  seen.  Yes, 
papers  are  lying  about,  the  windows  are  dirty,  there  is 
grass  between  the  rails,  a  certain  go-as-you-please  atmos- 
phere, a  democratic  unceremoniousness  —  things  the  Al- 
satians are  no  longer  accustomed  to  see  and  which  the 
scarred  officers  note  with  sniggering  compassion.     Yes, 


196  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

and  something  more  —  the  worship  of  words,  the  wor- 
ship of  colours,  of  heroic  display.  No  end  of  defects! 
But,  nevertheless,  these  people  are  cheerful;  they  possess 
gaiety,  that  treasure  of  life.  They  talk  to  you  on  the 
smallest  provocation ;  they  have  perception,  tact,  antennae 
—  in  a  word,  they  are  human.  When  one  comes  from 
the  other  side  of  the  barricade,  this  is  what  one  notices, 
and  not  the  dirty  window-panes.  Perhaps,  if  one  were 
to  live  among  them,  one  would  regret  the  order,  the 
strict  regulations  to  which  one  has  become  accustomed, 
but  today  all  one  sees  is  the  welcoming  smile,  the  Adju- 
tant's wave  of  the  hand,  amenity,  the  sweetest  flower  in 
the  garden  of  humanity,  the  charm  that  conquers  and 
wins  hearts. 

This  Alsatian  crowd  cannot  exactly  explain  what  it 
feels  so  well.  An  old  man  gets  near  it,  however,  when  he 
says: 

"As  soon  as  I  come  into  France,  I,  Seppi  Schubetzer, 
want  to  begin  telling  stories." 

"  Well,  Hort,"  asks  Weiss,  "  do  you  feel  yourself  a  bit 
French?  " 

Hort  makes  no  reply.  What  should  he  say?  It  is 
less  than  a  year  ago  that  he  finished  his  term  of  military 
service;  this  is  the  first  time  he  has  crossed  the  frontier 
and  he  is  bewildered.  This  Hort  is  a  subordinate  in 
Weiss's  office,  a  surly,  obstinate  fellow,  on  a  massive 
scale,  who  can  understand  French,  but  can  hardly  be  said 
to  speak  it.  In  heels  and  back  and  shoulders,  as  in 
the  carriage  of  the  head,  he  still  has  the  rigidity  acquired 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  197 

in  German  barracks.  Whenever  he  is  addressed,  he  in- 
stinctively readjusts  his  attitude.  Weiss  is  treating  him 
to  this  little  expedition.  There  will  be  one  more  who 
will  have  seen!  One  more  who  will  be  able  to  compare. 
Belfort!  And  suddenly  there  is  a  flutter  of  flags,  an 
orgy  of  red,  white,  and  blue,  a  crowd  that  flows  hither 
and  thither  like  water :  schoolboys,  peasants,  street  Arabs 
with  their  peaked  caps,  laughing  women,  smart  little 
gentlemen  explaining  the  program  of  the  day,  a  hundred 
children  of  a  school  kept  by  nuns,  hurrying  after  the 
white  starched  coifs.  Everywhere  the  roll  of  drums,  the 
eager  call  of  bugles,  the  blare  of  trumpets.  The  whole 
atmosphere  is  sonorous.  The  sky  is  like  a  huge  cymbal. 
Here  they  come!  Here  they  come!  .  .  .  How  gallant 
they  look!  The  bayonets  stab  the  light  with  their  mobile 
points.  Couples  link  arms.  All  advance,  keeping  time 
with  the  bugles  —  even  Hort,  who  stares  with  gaping 
mouth.  What  is  it  which  animates  all  these  men? 
What  is  it  which  flushes  their  faces,  lights  such  a  flame 
in  their  eyes,  and  such  enthusiasm  on  their  brows? 
What  is  the  victory  of  which  they  feel  so  sure?  .  .  . 
Weiss  has  ceased  to  exist  as  Weiss.  He  carries  his  stick 
over  his  shoulder,  like  a  rifle;  his  chest  expands  with 
martial  hopes;  and  when  the  buglers  cast  their  golden 
lightnings  skyward  with  a  supple  gesture,  his  cheeks  are 
inflated,  he  blows  with  them,  he  is  this  whole  crowd,  he 
is  this  infantryman  whose  eyes  sparkle  under  his  kepi, 
he  is  this  artilleryman  with  the  heavy  jaw,  he  is  this 
dragoon  who  is  spurring  his  horse,  he  is  all  France, 


198  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

he  soars  in  space  like  the  banner  that  floats  above  the 
bayonets. 

"  A  decadent  nation,"  said  Kummel.  "  A  decadent  na- 
tion !  "  repeats  Weiss.  "  Come  and  see,  my  good  fel- 
low !  "  Ardour  and  earnestness  pour  from  the  throats  of 
the  bugles.  They  sing  the  plains  of  France,  her  hills, 
her  rivers,  her  blue  which  is  the  joy  of  the  horizon;  they 
send  a  promise  across  the  Vosges.  All  these  faces  under- 
lined by  the  black  chin-strap  offer  the  gift  of  themselves; 
for  the  frontier  is  near,  and  every  one  knows  that  they 
are  on  the  other  side,  crouching,  ready  to  spring.  .  .  . 

Little  blue-and-red-soldiers,  do  you  know  what  courage 
your  ardour  pours  into  the  hearts  of  the  faithful  exiles? 
Can  you  feel  the  tenderness  of  the  many  eyes  that  rest 
on  you? 

On  the  Champ-de-Mars  the  crowd  is  seething,  dotted 
by  the  black  Alsatian  bows.  And  in  the  vast  open  space 
batteries  roll  by;  one  notes  the  supple  lines  of  the  horses, 
the  clink  of  swords  drawn  from  the  scabbard,  the  formid- 
able squares  of  the  regiments,  the  thousands  of  white- 
gaitered  feet  which  are  set  down  and  lifted,  the  glitter 
of  bayonets,  the  proudly  borne  banners,  and  still  the 
bugles,  and  the  brazen  blast  that  sweeps  over  the  as- 
sembled heads.  When  the  squadrons  which  rush  for- 
ward in  the  wild  frenzy  of  the  charge  disappear,  a  cloud 
of  dust  rises  into  the  air  like  the  smoke  of  a  conflagra- 
tion. 

Hort  still  says  nothing.  He  looks.  He  listens  to  this 
commanding  officer  addressing  his  men  as  "  My  friends." 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  199 

Once  more  there  is  the  rampart  of  bayonets,  the  quick 
tramp  of  men  returning  to  barracks.  There  is  a  grand- 
mother there  in  the  foremost  of  the  crowd,  a  rustic  grand- 
mother in  a  gauffered  cap.  A  whole  brood  of  youngsters 
is  sheltering  in  the  wide  folds  of  her  skirt.  Suddenly  one 
of  the  smallest  of  the  band  slips  across  between  the  ranks 
of  the  soldiers.  Finding  himself  alone  on  the  further 
side  he  howls  at  the  top  of  his  voice,  terrified  at  his  own 
boldness.  And  it  is  a  comical  sight  when  the  grand- 
mother calls  her  lost  chick.  A  mounted  Major  has 
observed  the  drama.  He  half  turns  in  his  saddle;  with 
his  sword,  he  signs  to  his  men  to  mark  time,  and  opens 
a  space  in  the  interminable  column.  Then,  smiling  un- 
der his  long  moustache  and  saluting  with  his  sword,  he 
says:  "  Pass,  Madame."  The  old  woman  gathers  up 
her  skirts,  and,  driving  her  brood  before  her,  she  re- 
joins the  brat  who  is  still  howling  open-mouthed- 

Hort  remembers  how  once  in  the  streets  of  Mulhouse 
a  Lieutenant  ran  his  sword  through  the  body  of  an  ap- 
prentice in  a  hurry  who  had  slipped  across  between  two 
companies.  And  he  utters  this  cry,  a  cry  of  deliverance 
wrung  from  him  by  an  act  of  humane  courtesy :  "  Yes, 
indeed,  now  I'm  a  Frenchman!  " 

Was  it  really  Hort  who  said  this?  ...  He  is  aston- 
ished at  it  himself. 

Weiss  slips  his  hand  under  the  Alsatian's  arm.  He 
carries  him  along.  They  dine  behind  the  laurestinus- 
bushes  of  a  terrace.  Hort's  face  has  regained  its  harsh 
military  expression.     He  is  silent,  engrossed  by  the  duty 


200  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

of  the  moment,  which  is  to  eat.  In  the  square  below, 
the  merry-go-rounds  are  revolving  to  the  whine  of  their 
barrel-organ.  A  negro,  under  his  green  parasol,  contorts 
himself  before  his  ices  and  sweetmeats.  There  are  red 
balloons,  blind  beggars,  shooting-galleries,  the  crash  of 
broken  pipes,  the  laughter  of  the  full-breasted  wench 
who  reloads  the  carabine  and  hands  it  to  a  rollicking 
soldier.  Heat,  dust,  sweat,  all  the  joyous  vulgarity  of 
the  fair  which  the  Savoureuse  seems  to  drag  along  in  its 
dirty  waters,  spread  out  in  pools  among  the  rubbish  and 
the  broken  crockery.  .  .  . 

All  this  the  visitors  are  determined  to  think  very  fine, 
very  grand.  They  came  to  admire,  to  give  colour  to  the 
fair  legend  on  which  they  live. 

The  train  rolls  homeward  in  the  sunset  glow.  Its 
passengers  are  dead  tired.  Their  heads  are  buzzing  with 
a  confused  noise  of  rhythmic  steps,  bugle-calls,  red 
patches,  blue  patches,  the  murmur  that  rises  towards  the 
quivering  flags.  All  this  they  are  carrying  back  with 
them  towards  the  wall  of  the  approaching  Vosges.  The 
gay  highways  of  the  morning  are  covered  with  shadows. 
At  the  last  French  station  all  is  quiet  under  the  faded 
garlands. 

"  Long  live  France !  "  cries  a  Mulhouse  workman  more 
than  half  seas  over. 

His  wife,  a  little  tub-like  woman,  dressed  in  purple, 
glances  anxiously  at  him. 

"  Come,  Joseph !  you  must  hold  your  tongue  now." 

She  says  this  in  an  Alsatian  patois  the  acerbity  of 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  201 

which  no  translation  can  convey.  Joseph  repeats  his 
cry,  and  lapses  into  silence.  Prudence  reasserts  itself 
in  all  these  souls.  And  now  the  masters  of  the  day,  the 
police  officer,  the  police  inspector,  the  Customs  officials 
reappear.  They  make  a  stir.  They  turn  over  the  con- 
tents of  bags  and  baskets.  They  take  names.  They 
question.  They  confiscate  cockades  and  ribbons.  It  is 
a  typical  Alsatian  14th  of  July  evening.  Dreading  some 
outburst,  the  fat  woman  in  purple  keeps  close  to  her 
drunken  husband,  ready  to  clap  her  broad  hand  over 
his  open  mouth.  But  Joseph  confines  himself  to  hiccup- 
ing  laughter.  After  which  he  affirms  very  simply:  "  Yoo, 
yoo,  Gottverdammi." 

Backs  are  bowed  again.  All  day  long  they  have  been 
living  in  the  open.  They  have  said  the  things  that  were 
in  their  minds.  They  have  rubbed  up  against  Liberty. 
They  have  marched  to  the  rhythm  of  bugles.  And  now 
they  have  come  back  to  greyness  and  silence  and  fear. 

The  drunkard  repeats,  shaking  his  head :  "  Yoo,  yoo, 
yoo,  Gottverdammi!  " 

It  is  the  next  evening.  The  days  are  long,  the  evenings 
warm.  Reymond  is  walking  on  the  bank  of  the  river. 
Near  the  bridge  in  the  penumbra,  a  man  bows  to  him.  It 
is  Kroner,  alone  as  usual.     Reymond  feels  sorry  for  him. 

"  What  a  fine  evening!  " 

"Beautiful!  And  how  did  you  enjoy  the  four- 
teenth? " 

"  The  French  troops  looked  magnificent." 

Kroner  evades  this  issue. 


202  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

"  There  are,  it  seems,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Vosges 
thousands  of  men  in  uniforms  of  a  certain  colour,  armed 
with  rifles  and  bayonets,  and  on  this  side  of  the  Vosges 
there  are  also  thousands  of  men  in  uniforms  of  another 
colour,  also  armed  with  rifles  and  bayonets.  .  .  .  Tomor- 
row, perhaps,  or  certainly  in  a  year  or  two,  the  trumpet 
will  sound  for  war,  and  these  men  will  murder  each  other. 
There  will  be  masses  of  dead  bodies  in  this  pretty  path 
on  which  we  are  walking.     Poor  valley!  " 

"  Then,  you  think  there  will  be  war?  " 

"Yes,  I  think  so.  I  think  so  because  we  are  strong, 
too  strong.  We  have  too  many  men,  too  many  guns. 
It  is  a  terrible  thing  to  be  too  strong,  because  strength, 
pride,  and  harshness  always  go  together.  That  is  a  law 
of  psychology.  In  barracks,  at  school,  in  church,  noth- 
ing is  talked  of  but  force,  the  power  of  the  fist.  Poor 
discipline!  poor  pedagogy!  poor  religion!  .  .  .  Believe 
me.  Monsieur,  I  am  a  good  German  patriot;  I  love  my 
country  with  all  my  heart,  and  it  is  because  I  love  it 
that  I  suff'er  when  I  hear  this  eternal  cry  of  '  Strength, 
strength,  strength !  '  and  never  '  Kindness,  kindness,  kind- 
ness! '  .  .  ." 

After  a  silence  Kroner  went  on : 

"We  are  hated,  we  are  hated  everywhere.  Monsieur, 
I  know;  I  have  felt  it  during  my  travels.  Jealousy?  I 
don't  think  so.  People  do  not  hate  the  Germany  of 
Schiller,  but  this  Germany  which  puts  German  justice 
above  the  justice  of  God.     I  think  of  many  things  every 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  203 

day,  when  I  read  our  newspapers  and  our  reviews,  when 
I  listen  to  the  talk  of  our  officials  and  our  officers,  and  I 
am  afraid,  afraid  of  what  must  come." 

Reymond  listens  without  interrupting.  He  feels  the 
heart  of  an  honest  man  beating. 

"  Truly,  I  believe  that  we  are  destined  to  make  others 
suffer  and  to  suffer  ourselves  terribly.  What  a  struggle 
is  being  prepared!  Every  day,  in  my  native  Wiirtem- 
berg,  my  mother  prays  to  God  that  kindness,  pity,  and 
justice  may  prevail.  But  how  many  millions  of  men 
are  praying  to  the  Devil  that  cannon  may  prevail!  .  .  . 
And  I,  too,  pray  for  Germany.  In  the  evening,  when  I 
play  my  piano,  that  too  is  a  prayer,  a  little  star  which 
the  clouds  devour.  Round  me  the  others  are  always  cry- 
ing: '  We  are  strong!  we  ought  to  dominate  the  world!  ' 
.  .  .  And  they  strike  their  breasts,  which  resound,  be- 
cause there  is  no  heart  within  them.  ...  I  tried  to 
show  the  Alsatians  that  I  love  them,  and  I  think  they  are 
fond  of  me.  So,  of  course.  Monsieur  Kummel  has  writ- 
ten to  Strasburg,  Monsieur  Doring,  too,  has  written,  and 
I  am  dismissed.  I  am  going  back  to  Wiirtemberg,  with 
my  piano.     Good-bye,  Monsieur  Reymond." 

Before  Reymond  could  detain  him.  Kroner,  like  some 
huge  bat  with  his  thin  bowed  back  and  long  arms, 
mystical,  romantic,  a  lunatic,  some  would  say,  a  clear- 
sighted prophet  according  to  others,  had  disappeared 
into  the  darkness. 

And  the  next  day  Kummel  remarked: 


204  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

"Kroner?  He  is  a  pious  Socialist,  one  of  the  worst 
specimens  of  humanity.  He  is  being  sent  back  to  Mora- 
via. We  want  men  in  Alsace,  not  star-gazers.  That's 
what  you  call  them,  isn't  it?  " 


XI 

MADAME  BOHLER  accompanied  her  son  to  Besangon 
when  he  went  up  for  his  degree  of  Bachelor  of 
Arts.  Jean  started  pale,  feverish,  his  nose  in  his  books. 
And  he  was  plucked  in  his  written  examination.  One  of 
the  professors  explained  the  reason  of  this  set-back  to 
Madame  Bohler. 

"  Your  son  must  not  be  discouraged,  Madame.  The 
young  Alsatians  are  often  victims  of  their  extreme  con- 
scientiousness. They  never  cease  correcting,  erasing,  be- 
ginning over  again,  hesitating  between  two  meanings. 
The  result  is  that  the  Latin  translation,  the  Greek  trans- 
lation, the  French  composition,  were  good,  even  very 
good,  but  almost  half  of  the  work  was  still  to  be  done. 
We  feel  that  your  son  is  really  ready.  All  he  lacks  is 
a  certain  facility,  a  certain  vivacity  of  execution.  I  con- 
sider his  success  assured  in  the  autumn." 

"  Poor  Jean  is  really  much  to  be  pitied,"  wrote  Rey- 
mond  to  his  family  shortly  afterwards.  "  His  failure  has 
depressed  him  terribly,  and  wounded  him  in  his  pride 
as  an  Alsatian.  Going  to  extremes,  he  declares  himself 
incapable,  a  perfect  donkey,  or  the  victim  of  circum- 
stances which  cause  the  Alsatian  to  be  a  kind  of  hybrid 
everywhere.  He  says  cruel  things.  'When  I  saw  my 
comrades  at  Bensangon  so  keen  and  intelligent  —  and  I 

205 


206  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

hear  they  are  twice  as  brilliant  in  Paris,  so  what  a  figure 
I  should  cut  there!  —  I  felt  so  out  of  it,  so  horribly  alien. 
It's  enough  to  make  one  cry  with  rage.  It's  a  wretched 
thing  to  be  an  Alsatian!  '  It  is  very  difficult  to  cheer 
him  up.  Work  is  almost  impossible  in  these  days  of 
torrid  heat.  So  Monsieur  Bohler  has  decided  on  two 
things:  Rene,  who  is  troublesome  at  home,  where  he  can 
talk  of  nothing  but  expanders  and  of  jumping  with  the 
feet  together,  is  to  be  sent  to  an  aunt  at  Rouen  for  the 
holidays.  To  give  Jean  a  rest,  and  a  change  of  ideas 
before  returning  to  work  he  has  already  gone  over  hun- 
dreds of  times,  we  are  to  make  a  fortnight's  tour  in 
Alsace,  to  see  museums,  relics,  cathedrals,  old  inns,  cas- 
tles, ruins,  and  abbeys.  It  will  be  splendid.  Monsieur 
Weiss  and  his  two  sons,  Charles,  of  whom  I  have  often 
spoken  to  you,  and  the  eldest,  Frangois,  who  goes  into 
German  barracks  this  autumn,  are  also  to  be  of  the  party. 
I  am  looking  forward  to  it  immensely.  And  it  will  en- 
able me  to  become  more  intimate  with  Jean,  who  is  cer- 
tainly a  noble  fellow,  frank,  loyal,  and  sensitive." 

The  travellers  have  returned. 

The  memories,  which  were  somewhat  confused  at  first, 
are  co-ordinating  themselves.  Ruins  everywhere.  What 
ruins!  Perched  on  the  summit,  leaning  over  the  preci- 
pice, a  tower  with  shattered  walls;  on  this  neighbouring 
peak,  which  has  at  its  feet  the  plain,  and  villages  nestling 
among  the  vines,  is  another  tower,  showing  savage 
breaches;  down  there  is  yet  another.    Doors  open  over 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  207 

a  chasm.  They  saw  the  hearth  where  quarters  of  oxen 
were  roasted,  the  watch-tower  of  the  keep;  they  shivered 
at  the  chill  of  dungeons.  Elsewhere  there  are  stony  frag- 
ments, crumbled  heaps  of  masonry,  a  spiral  staircase 
which  winds  upward  under  the  open  sky,  clinging  shrubs, 
brambles  and  mosses,  all  the  sinister  intimacy  of  Nature 
with  the  remnants  of  a  perished  humanity.  Where  are 
they  who  carved  those  blocks,  polished  those  balustrades, 
poured  the  boiling  pitch  through  the  gaping  machicola- 
tions? How  haughty  are  those  forsaken  ramparts  which 
defied  the  centuries,  which  witnessed  the  drunken  orgies 
of  the  marauding  barons,  heard  the  laughter  of  loose 
women,  and  one  day  the  shout  of  boors  advancing  to  the 
assault  of  the  stronghold!  Down  there  in  the  grass  — 
one  treads  upon  it  in  passing  —  there  is  a  stone  with  a 
coat  of  arms  and  a  half-efi'aced  date. 

You  who  pass  this  way  in  tourist  costume  would  like, 
perhaps,  to  know  the  history  of  this  eagle's  nest  perched 
in  the  azure  and  the  wind.  What  does  it  matter  to  you? 
Live  your  lives  in  the  plain.  And  if  you  want  marble 
plaques  with  graven  explanations,  pointing  forefingers, 
names,  a  cicerone,  a  printed  notice,  climb  up  to  the 
Hohkonigsburg. 

Seated  on  a  boulder  where  a  lizard  is  darting  about, 
the  traveller  gazes  at  the  blue  slopes  of  the  hills  descend- 
ing like  flocks  to  the  plain,  the  sparkling  ponds,  the 
canals,  the  rivers,  the  carpet  of  cultivated  land,  the  uncut 
jewel  of  harvests  set  in  light,  the  brown  scales  which  are 
the  roofs  of  the  little  town,  that  smoke  which  proclaims 


208  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

a  city,  that  other  smoke,  in  patches,  which  rises  from  a 
wood,  runs  through  the  fields,  and  means  a  train  like  a 
child's  toy,  in  which  men,  seated  on  cushions,  show  a 
little  piece  of  cardboard  to  a  man  in  a  cap,  and  then  read 
the  telegrams  in  the  paper  with  serious  eyes. 

The  travellers  go  down  towards  this  plain.  Barefooted 
children  with  roguish  looks,  their  baskets  slung  round 
their  necks,  are  gathering  raspberries.  They  cry  "  Greet- 
ing! Greeting!  "  to  the  strangers  who  pass.  Then  they 
say  something  in  patois,  and  laugh  merrily.  It  does  one 
good  to  hear  this  laughter.  It  rings  out  like  silver  bells 
in  the  sunshine.  It  does  not  rise  from  the  heart  of  a 
disingenuous  race.  Standing  on  ladders,  the  daughters 
of  Alsace  gather  plums,  displaying  their  solid  calves. 
They  are  quite  aware  of  this,  and  not  at  all  ashamed. 
Their  bare  arms  plunge  into  the  cool  green  of  the 
branches.  There  are  footsteps.  They  look.  These 
travellers  are  the  right  sort.  Three  plums  fall  on  the 
grey  hat.     "  Thank  you !     Thank  you !  " 

And  every  village  in  the  heart  of  its  orchard,  in  the 
heart  of  its  vineyard,  has  its  patent  of  nobility  to  show: 
its  castle,  its  roofs  with  three  rows  of  dormer  windows, 
its  flight  of  steps  at  the  entrance,  its  carved  doors,  and, 
looking  out  upon  its  manure-heaps,  its  mullioned  win- 
dows, its  windows  with  small  panes  set  in  lead.  The  visi- 
tors question  the  man  with  the  pitchfork.  The  date  of 
this  house  with  the  gargoyles?  He  answers,  "Oh!  it's 
very  old,"  as  he  goes  off. 

In  the  evening  the  travellers  rest  at  a  rustic  inn,  where 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  209 

the  table  is  enlivened  with  pink  slices  of  ham,  and  bowls 
in  which  the  newly  gathered  apples  glow.  Succulent 
smells  issue  from  the  kitchen.  There  is  not  much  talk. 
Enframed  in  the  window  are  the  shoulders  of  the  ancient 
abbey.  The  whole  country  is  a  page  from  the  book  of 
history.  If  one  listens,  there  is  a  murmur  like  that  one 
hears  in  a  sea-shell,  the  memory  of  tempests.  Emperors, 
Kings,  Popes,  men  of  war,  what  great  names!  How 
many  tombstones  there  are  on  which  a  Bishop  lies  at  full 
length,  showing  the  passers-by  his  bald  forehead  and  a 
nose  eaten  away  by  time.  Their  virtues  are  set  forth  in 
Latin.  The  word  "  honour  "  recurs  everywhere.  "  What 
is  death,"  says  one  inscription,  "  if  one  carries  honour 
to  the  grave?  " 

The  travellers  cross  the  square  as  night  begins  to  fall. 
For  a  while  they  follow  the  road  that  runs  along  the  river. 
Unforgettable  evening,  when  the  little  town,  flooded  by 
moonlight,  looks  as  if  it  were  sketched  on  the  margin 
of  some  heroic  legend.  ...  A  man  is  leading  back  the 
last  cart  heaped  with  sheaves  from  the  field.  And  the 
ears  are  so  golden  pale  that  it  might  be  the  moon  herself 
he  is  carrying  off  to  the  barn.  The  white-waistcoated 
lawyer  is  on  his  doorstep,  and  so,  too,  is  the  grocer  in  em- 
broidered slippers.  And  the  watchman  passes,  striking 
his  cane  upon  the  pavement,  which  means  that  the  chil- 
dren who  are  dancing  in  a  ring  round  the  plane-trees  must 
be  called  in.  So  they  are  called.  As  long  as  one  can 
remember,  things  have  gone  on  like  this.  Beloved  tradi- 
tion! 


210  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

The  travellers  sit  down  on  the  hillside.  One  of  them 
says: 

"  What  a  fate  to  be  this  lawyer,  this  grocer,  to  live  in 
a  scutcheoned  house,  under  a  roof  where  the  same  weath- 
ercock has  creaked  since  the  days  of  fable!  To  live  in 
close  intimacy  with  these  turrets,  these  arched  windows, 
these  doors  where  one  still  sees  the  furrows  made  by  the 
chains  of  the  drawbridge;  then  to  die,  to  go  and  join 
one's  brethren  round  the  cross  which  has  been  stretching 
out  its  arms  over  the  graves  since  1422." 

They  are  silent.  They  look  at  the  valley  as  it  falls 
asleep. 

Drei  Schlosser  auf  einem  Berge, 

Drei  Kirchen  auf  einem  Kirchhofe, 

Drei  Stadt'  in  einem  Thai, 

Drei  Ofen  in  einem  Saal 

1st  das  ganz  Elsass  iiberall, 

says  the  proverb.  "Three  castles  on  one  mountain, 
three  churches  in  one  churchyard,  three  towns  in  one 
valley,  three  stoves  in  one  room  —  that  is  Alsace  every- 
where." 

The  moonlight  makes  Weiss  sentimental. 

"  I  remember  a  story  my  father  used  to  tell  me  long 
ago.  I  have  never  forgotten  it.  Here  it  is:  Once  upon 
a  time  there  were  a  giant,  a  fairy,  and  a  little  girl.  The 
little  girl  was  very  much  like  the  fairy,  and  a  little  bit 
like  the  giant.  To  please  them,  she  used  to  call  them 
Papa  and  Mama.  It  would  not  have  been  possible  to 
have  had  parents  more  dissimilar.     The  giant  was  so 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  211 

jealous  and  so  brutal,  he  shouted  such  a  string  of  abuse 
to  the  fairy  across  the  mountains,  that  the  little  girl  used 
to  hide  in  the  forest.  The  giant  was  continually  sum- 
moning his  counsellors.  He  would  say  to  them:  'Tell 
me,  for  my  memory  is  failing  a  little  .  .  .  wine  and  to- 
bacco, you  know  ...  to  whom  does  this  little  girl  be- 
long? She  has  not  my  eyes,  nor  my  stomach.  Shall  I 
give  her  up?  But  she  is  pretty;  she  pleases  me.'  The 
counsellors  answered :  '  Sire,  shut  her  up  in  a  court, 
have  her  educated  on  your  own  principles,  fatten  her  up 
that  she  may  grow  like  you.  There  is  nothing  like  force. 
Give  your  orders.     We  will  obey.' 

"The  giant  gave  his  orders.  The  little  girl  was  shut 
up;  men  in  spectacles  taught  her  the  principles  of  the 
giant  (the  first  of  which  is  that  might  is  divine),  and 
fattened  her  up. 

"  But  at  night,  when  the  spectacled  men  were  asleep, 
the  fairy  came  secretly  to  the  court,  and  opened  its  walls 
with  a  touch  of  her  wand.  She  said :  '  Now,  my  child, 
live  as  you  choose,  play,  dance,  skip.  Learn  to  em- 
broider and  to  play  the  harp.  Work,  too,  but  without 
wrinkling  your  forehead  as  the  spectacled  men  teach  you 
to  do,  for  there  is  no  good  work  without  cheerfulness. 
I  don't  like  the  severe  manner  in  which  you  are  treated. 
God  is  not  hard.     He  loves  laughing  folks.' 

"The  child  was  gradually  humanized;  she  learned  to 
laugh,  to  embroider,  to  play  the  harp.  .  .  .  Then  the 
fairy  called  her  confidante,  and  said  to  her:  'Do  you 
think  she  is  becoming  civilized?     I  love  this  child.     She 


212  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

learns  very  quickly.  And  she  has  beautiful  eyes.  I 
believe  her  to  be  well  gifted ;  she  has  feeling,  intelligence. 
Perhaps  she  is  a  trifle  heavy.  .  .  .  Do  I  deceive  myself? 
Honestly,  whom  do  you  think  this  child  takes  after? 
Really,  if  she  has  nothing  of  mine,  neither  tastes  nor  as- 
pirations, I  will  leave  her  in  the  hands  of  the  giant.  I 
will  not  do  violence  to  her  nature  at  any  price.' 

"  The  confidante  considered :  '  Madame,  I  think  she 
has  taken  the  good  qualities  of  both  sides,  for  the  giant 
is  not  altogether  evil.  It  is  from  him  that  the  child 
inherits  her  taste  for  music  and  a  certain  gravity.  But 
from  you  she  has  taken  something  more  than  her  eyes; 
she  has  your  entire  soul,  your  hatred  of  injustice,  your 
love  of  liberty.  Appeal  to  her  heart  and  she  will  remain 
faithful  to  you,  even  if  the  giant  were  to  shut  her  up  in 
the  court  for  over  a  hundred  years  with  the  men  in 
spectacles.' 

"  And  my  father  used  to  add  in  conclusion :  '  That  is 
the  story  of  Alsace.' " 

They  slept  between  the  rough  sheets  of  the  inn,  and 
then  they  took  the  pilgrim's  staff  once  more.  Strasburg. 
They  strolled  round  the  cathedral,  whose  shadow  makes 
another  monument  in  the  narrow  square,  where  cabs  roll 
along,  and  street-boys  chase  each  other.  They  saw  Cain 
and  Abel,  Abraham's  Sacrifice,  Jacob's  Ladder,  Jonah 
emerging  from  the  whale's  belly,  Judas,  the  Wise  and  the 
Foolish  Virgins,  the  Virtues  and  the  Vices,  the  Magi  be- 
fore the  Infant  Jesus,  Clovis,   Dagobert,   Charlemagne, 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  213 

Louis  the  Debonair,  Charles  the  Bald,  and  Lothair,  and 
Conrad  and  Henry  of  Germany,  and  the  Last  Judgment. 
Silence.  A  forest  of  columns.  The  glory  of  the  painted 
windows,  from  which  the  many-coloured  rays  fell  in  a 
gorgeous  rain.  The  Four  Ages  pass  before  Death,  who 
strikes  the  hours.  Tombs.  Si  roges  quis  sim;  pulvis  et 
umbra.  The  old  roofs  of  the  city  clustering  round  the 
sanctuary  look  like  so  many  sturdy  pointed  caps.  .  .  . 
Further  on,  the  palace  of  the  conqueror,  a  place  of  glit- 
tering gold  and  curving  domes.  Helmeted  men  stand  on 
guard  before  the  sentry-boxes.  They  are  relieved.  Gut- 
tural cries,  the  stamping  of  boots.  Two  nations,  two 
spirits.  The  street-boys  imitate  these  soldiers  and 
laugh.  ,  .  . 

The  travellers  turn  back  quickly  to  the  older  quarters 
—  to  the  slumbering  waters.  In  spite  of  all  these  guns, 
these  helmets  —  the  old  pleasures,  the  old  liberties,  the 
old  traditions,  twine  their  garlands  about  the  balconies. 
The  figures  carved  by  the  chisel  of  ancestors  smile  at  the 
scornful  glance  of  the  officer's  eyeglass.  .  .  .  Can  a 
treaty  loaded  with  seals  and  signatures  change  hearts? 
.  .  .  The  benches,  the  beds,  the  cradles,  the  tables  carved 
as  they  have  always  been  carved,  speak  as  they  have 
always  spoken.  How  dull  the  palaces  with  golden  domes 
are  in  the  midst  of  the  deserted  gardens  where  the  sym- 
metrical jets  of  water  are  playing! 

In  his  own  room  in  the  evening,  lulled  by  the  sounds 
that  rise  from  Friedensbach  —  it  is  nine  o'clock,  the  bell 


214  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

rings,  the  boats  dance  in  the  twilight  —  Reymond  con- 
templates the  vision  of  the  Alsace  he  has  just  discovered. 
What  images!  what  colours!  what  picturesqueness ! 
From  the  plain  to  the  summits  of  the  Vosges,  how  many 
monuments  there  are  which  tell  of  the  strong  yet  gentle 
soul  of  the  old  country!  From  century  to  century  its 
traditions  have  been  written  on  the  walls  of  its  country 
towns,  on  the  painted  windows  of  its  churches,  on  the 
gables  of  the  houses.  The  country  lies  between  river 
and  mountain,  so  simple  of  line,  so  clearly  traced.  The 
wind  sweeps  it  with  wide  wings,  bending  the  tops  of  the 
poplars,  teasing  the  weathercocks,  swooping  into  squares, 
gliding  into  courtyards.  And  the  men  have  the  frank- 
ness, the  roughness,  the  harsh  flavour,  of  this  wind. 

And  it  is  this  proud  country,  whence  rose  the  cry  of 
Rouget  de  ITsle;  these  towns,  so  often  ravaged  and 
destroyed,  so  often  rebuilt,  always  ready  to  suffer  for 
their  liberties,  that  the  heavy  parvenus  of  glory  think  to 
seduce  by  the  display  of  their  might!  .  .  .  One  has 
only  to  look  about  one  to  know  whence  one  comes,  who 
one  is.  The  stick  may  fall,  the  voice  may  scold,  eyes 
may  dart  lightnings,  boots  may  hammer  the  pavement, 
but  one  knows  what  gives  value  to  life.  This  people 
has  seen  at  close  quarters  the  hordes  of  Ariovistus,  the 
Huns,  the  Alemanni,  the  Ecorcheurs,  the  Swedish  troops, 
the  Kaiserlicks,  and  many  more,  and  with  them  the  smoke 
of  conflagrations,  desolation,  death.  .  .  .  Yet  when  did 
they  despair?  They  have  not  changed.  They  are  the 
stronger  for  their  many  memories,  more  attached  than 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  215 

ever  to  their  rights  and  dignity.     Rapp,  Kleber,  Keller- 
mann,  Lefevre,  are  their  witnesses.     Everywhere  there  are 
too  many  stones  to  allow  them  to  forget,  too  many  ruins 
on  the  hills,  too  many  dead  on  the  battlefields! 
They  drink  their  wine  and  sing: 

On  changerait  plutot  le  coeur  de  place 
Que  de  changer  la  vieille  Alsace! 

(Would  they  change  our  Alsatian  race? 
Sooner  shall  they  our  hearts  displace ! ) 

In  spite  of  the  heat,  Jean  works  from  morning  till 
night. 

"  Imagine  that  you  are  appearing  before  the  jury," 
said  Reymond  one  day;  "construct  an  audience,  and 
take  the  plunge  boldly!  Classify  your  ideas;  express 
them  simply.     I  am  listening.     Romanticism  .  .  ." 

Jean  meditates.  He  knows  his  subject,  but  how  shall 
he  attack  it? 

"Monsieur,  I  can  manage  the  writing,  but  speak- 
ing  .  .  ." 

"  What  are  you  afraid  of?  " 

"  How  could  I  have  learnt  to  speak?  Father  hardly 
ever  talks." 

"  Well,  I  won't  insist  on  it  today.  This  evening  before 
you  go  to  sleep,  think  of  your  subject,  arrange  it." 

Jean  asks  his  friend  Charles  Weiss: 

"  Do  you  think  the  Alsatians  are  less  intelligent  than 
the  French?  " 

"  Certainly  not.     We  are  splendid  stuff.     It's  the  Ger- 


216  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

man  schools  that  turn  us  into  machines.  You  left  at  the 
right  moment.  You  should  see  the  higher  classes. 
There  is  never  a  spark  of  originality.  They  prepare  a 
canvas  for  us.  We  may  not  go  outside  it.  The  forty 
pupils  have  to  repeat  the  same  things,  if  possible  in  the 
same  words.  In  history,  if  you  venture  to  argue  or  to 
raise  an  objection,  you  are  treated  as  a  babbler,  a  Franz- 
osenkopf,  ,  ,  ,  Roughly  speaking,  we  are  soldiers  even 
in  the  schools.  The  professor  is  the  colonel.  He  speaks. 
We  click  our  heels  together.     Zam  Befehl!  " 

"  It  will  stick  to  us  all  our  lives,"  sighed  Jean. 

"  Some  people  say  it  gives  method  and  discipline," 
continued  Charles.  "/  say  that  it  paralyses  one.  One 
accepts  everything.     One  becomes  a  machine." 

Shut  up  in  the  schoolroom,  Jean  spent  the  whole  even- 
ing debating  with  himself,  gesticulating,  making  objec- 
tions, which  he  answered  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  furi- 
ous with  his  own  timidity  and  awkwardness.  Still  agi- 
tated by  these  efforts,  he  looked  out  at  the  valley,  and 
understood  its  abandonment  better  than  ever. 

"  One  can't  be  wholly  anything  here.  It  would  disgust 
us  to  be  German;  they  won't  let  us  be  French.  Alsa- 
tians? .  .  .  Then  they  hunt  us  down." 

The  next  day,  Jean,  embittered  and  discouraged,  de- 
fined Romanticism  without  ardour  and  with  no  attempt 
at  precision. 

"  That's  better,"  said  his  tutor,  "  but  you  still  seem 
to  be  suffering.  It  is  evident  that  you  are  distrustful  of 
yourself  and  of  your  tongue.     Try  to  have  some  confi- 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  217 

dence  in  yourself.  Tomorrow  we  will  take  Le  Cid.  The 
Cid!  Sapristi!  That's  a  work  which  demands  fire,  col- 
our, concentration,  vigour !  " 

In  the  evenings  of  these  hot  days,  the  three  went  for 
a  walk,  always  the  same,  at  the  foot  of  the  hills,  for  that 
was  more  restful.  On  some  of  these  occasions  they  saw 
Kummel's  bowler  hat  bobbing  above  the  bushes.  In  the 
miraculous  serenity  of  the  evening,  the  schoolmaster's 
hat  —  with  the  schoolmaster  beneath  it,  no  doubt,  though 
he  was  not  seen  —  was  a  spectacle  worthy  of  admiration. 
But  this  was  not  Jean's  opinion. 

"  Pray,  Monsieur,  let  us  be  off." 

"  Don't  be  so  nervous." 

"  He  is  madder  than  ever,  you  know.  In  all  the  last 
lessons  he  has  given  us,  he  has  done  nothing  but  abuse 
France.  'All  your  French  culture  is  superficial.  .  .  . 
The  Alsatians  are  bastards,  who  must  be  humiliated.' " 

"  What  nonsense !  ...  As  a  fact,  it  is  very  comical 
and  quite  unimportant!  " 

Ceremonious  bows  are  exchanged. 

"  Delightful  weather,  is  it  not?  "  said  Kummel,  mop- 
ping his  face.  "  May  I  continue  my  walk  in  this  agree- 
able company?  " 

He  described  his  holiday  program. 

"  There  must  be  method  in  all  things.  Fancy  destroys 
both  nations  and  individuals.  I  get  up  at  seven,  and 
say:  Now  I  will  perform  my  daily  ablutions,  and  then 
my  methodical  respirations.  .  .  .  Then  I  breakfast.  .  .  . 
At  nine  o'clock  I  say:     Now  a  short  walk,  a  little  obi 


218  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

servation  of  plants  and  of  the  manners  of  insects.  .  .  . 
After  that,  grammar  and  syntax,  history  and  geography, 
not  with  a  view  to  tuition,  but  with  a  view  to  personal 
perfection.  Dinner.  A  pipe.  Now,  I  say,  I  will  medi- 
tate; I  allow  myself  a  nap.  .  .  .  When  I  have  had  my 
nap,  I  work  in  the  garden,  give  a  lesson  in  vegetable  cul- 
ture to  the  children,  have  some  familiar  conversation 
with  them.  When  the  temperature  cools,  we  have  some 
vigorous  exercise.  A  meal.  A  walk.  I  count  my  steps 
on  a  given  distance.  I  compare  the  number  with  the 
number  taken  on  previous  occasions.  In  this  way,  the 
mind  is  always  alertly  fixed  on  an  object,  and  thus  one 
may  advance  courageously  to  the  battle  of  life.  .  .  . 
Nine  o'clock.  Then  I  say:  I  and  my  wife  will  now  go 
to  bed,  and  enjoy  slumber." 

This  breviary  of  activity  is  set  forth  with  a  tone  of  mag- 
nificent conviction.  The  word  "  now  "  in  particular  is 
pronounced  with  a  sort  of  nasal  finality. 

"Does  not  all  this  tire  you  very  much?  "  asked  Rey- 
mond  sympathetically. 

"  Fatigue  is  the  mother  of  energy,  and  energy  is  the 
father  of  life." 

"  Then  what  becomes  of  the  poetry  of  the  holidays?  " 

"  Poetry !  Poetry !  There  is  no  poetry  save  in  strict 
method.     We  understand  this  in  Germany." 

There  was  a  silence.     Then  Kummel  said  suddenly: 

"And  so  you  are  leaving  our  valley.  Monsieur  Jean 
Bohler?  ...  for  good,  I  hear.  .  .  .  You  are  going  to 
rejoin  the  Great  Nation?  " 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  219 

Jean  trembled.     He  was  white  with  anger. 

"Just  so.  I  am  going  to  rejoin  the  Great  Nation. 
Perhaps  you  will  not  always  sneer  when  you  call  her 
this." 

"  I  never  sneer,  Monsieur  Bohler.  I  am  only  grieved 
when  a  young  man  does  not  know  the  true  path.  .  .  . 
The  German  eagle  is  full  of  vigour.  It  must  expand  — 
that  is  inevitable.  The  nations  which  have  become  effem- 
inate must  give  way.  This,  again,  is  inevitable.  To 
obey  a  sentiment,  to  go  towards  declivity  (do  you  say 
decline  or  declivity?),  to  go  towards  decline,  is  a  fruit- 
less operation." 

Jean's  eyes  sparkled.  He  threw  prudence  to  the 
winds. 

"  Monsieur  Kummel,  when  you  find  yourself  before 
the  bayonet  of  one  of  our  Chasseurs  Alpins,  on  which 
side  will  decline  be?  " 

The  schoolmaster  turned  pale.  This  hypothesis  was 
disturbing.     He  recovered  his  calm  presently. 

"  Utopia !  The  old  conception  of  the  struggle  between 
nations!  With  our  modern  engines  of  destruction, 
battles  will  be  fought  at  a  distance  of  fifteen  kilometres. 
Bayonets  may  be  left  at  home  with  the  umbrellas !  " 

Kummel  laughed  loudly.     He  bowed  and  went  off. 

"Good  heavens!"  said  Reymond.  "It  was  time  to 
part.  He  did  not  like  that  idea  of  the  bayonet.  A 
little  shiver  ran  down  his  spine." 

"You  won't  tell  father,  will  you,  Monsieur?  It 
would  do  no  good." 


220  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

"  No,  no,  my  dear  fellow !  " 

Besangon.  This  time  the  candidate  proved  freer  and 
more  versatile.     He  passed  with  honours. 

What  a  good  little  dinner  they  had  after  sending  off 
the  telegram  to  Friedensbach !  Everything  was  good, 
everything  was  beautiful.  They  walked  on  the  banks  of 
the  Doubs;  they  wandered  about  in  the  old  quarters,  ad- 
miring the  sober  elegance  of  the  low  houses,  the  shady 
courtyards,  the  barred  windows,  the  door  with  a  knocker, 
the  quiet  harmony  of  the  whole.  They  went  into  a  shop 
that  displayed  fruit  gathered  that  very  morning,  ripe 
grapes.  A  cat  was  asleep  on  the  counter,  a  canary  sang 
near  the  ceiling.  The  grandame  who  seryed  them  was 
amiable.  She  had  pretty  manners,  pretty  phrases.  .  .  . 
Then  there  was  the  long  journey  back  to  Friedensbach. 

"  Here's  our  Bachelor  of  Arts ! " 

They  embrace.  Rene,  who  had  returned  in  the 
morning,  presses  his  brother's  hand.  Men  don't  kiss 
each  other!     There  are  flowers  everywhere. 

"  Turn  round !  "  says  Rene.  "  Let's  see  how  a  Bachelor 
of  Arts  is  made." 

"And  we  congratulate  you.  Monsieur  Reymond.  We 
owe  a  good  part  of  this  success  to  you." 

Reymond  protests. 

"  Father  is  quite  right,"  says  Jean.  "  But  for  you  I 
should  have  been  plucked  again." 

Every  one  is  pleased.  Before  night  falls,  they  walk 
round    the    garden.     The    evening    train    passes    with 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  221 

a    whistle.     The   goats   come    down    from   the   heights. 

Madame  Bohler  takes  her  son's  arm. 

"  It  is  good  to  be  together  again  a  little  longer." 

"  A  week  more,  mother." 

Monsieur  Bohler  is  walking  slowly.  They  look  at 
each  other.     They  repeat:    "A  week  more." 

Rene  is  gesticulating  under  a  fir-tree  with  his  ex- 
panders. 

"  What?     Are  you  at  it  again  already?  " 

"  Certainly.  I  want  to  gain  two  centimetres  in  the 
thorax  before  we  leave.     A  quarter  of  a  centimetre  a  day." 

"  There's  one  who  knows  how  to  take  life,"  said  Mon- 
sieur Bohler. 

Madame  Bohler  pressed  her  elder  son's  arm  closer. 

"  Well,  mother?  "  says  Jean  simply. 

"  My  dear,  good  boy !  "  replies  his  mother. 

They  add  nothing  more.  So  much  can  be  said  when 
the  mouth  is  silent,  leaving  the  heart  to  speak. 

Weiss  never  entered  the  burial-ground  of  Friedensbach 
without  feeling  a  bitter  contempt  for  human  barriers, 
an  emotion  of  pity,  a  softening  of  his  angry  feelings. 
These  dead  who  were  at  strife  as  long  as  they  lived, 
who  excommunicated  each  other,  all  silent  now,  all  rest- 
ing tranquilly  side  by  side.  The  plant  rooted  in  one 
mound  throws  its  branches  •  over  the  neighbouring 
mound;  the  flower  that  blossoms  on  the  body  of  an 
Alsatian  has  the  same  perfume  as  the  flower  that  opens 
over  the  body  of  a  German. 


222  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

Weiss  came  to  the  grave  of  his  son  Jacques.  Now  it 
was  Frangois'  turn  to  put  on  the  hated  uniform.  At 
the  age  when  a  young  man  emerges  into  freedom,  pride, 
and  dignity,  at  the  age  when  the  heart  feels  the  slightest 
pin-prick  so  acutely,  to  have  to  bow  his  neck  to  the  yoke, 
to  stifle  the  cry  that  rends  the  throat,  to  accept,  at  least 
apparently,  the  atrocious  lie,  because  his  country  has 
been  stolen  from  him! 

Has  one  any  right  to  exact  such  a  sacrifice  from  a  son? 
Is  it  worth  while  to  struggle  so?  And  why,  since  these 
dead  are  sleeping  so  peacefully  under  the  same  earth? 
What  madness  drives  men  to  crucify  each  other  before 
entering  into  the  eternal  silence?  .  .  .  Weiss  felt  all 
the  ties  that  bound  him  to  his  people  relaxing.  He 
closed  his  eyes.  On  just  such  an  October  day  as  this  he 
had  gone  with  Jacques  to  Mulhouse;  they  were  about 
to  be  parted  for  many  long  months.  "  Do  you  feel 
strong  enough  to  bear  it  all?  "  Jacques  had  answered 
very  simply:     "Do   you  doubt  me?" 

Later  at  Munich,  standing  by  the  body  of  his  son, 
so  thin,  with  such  drawn  features,  Weiss  thought  he 
should  go  mad.  A  doctor  explained :  "  We  did  our 
best  for  him.  When  he  reported  sick  it  was  already  too 
late.  A  slow  wasting.  ...  A  pleurisy.  .  .  ."  In  his  let- 
ters Jacques  had  said  nothing  of  the  refinements  of  hu- 
miliation inflicted  on  him  by  a  gambling  Lieutenant, 
furious  at  feeling  himself  condemned  by  this  silent  youth. 

The  face  of  the  dead  is  an  eternal  marble.     Their 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  223 

words  have  the  force  of  words  of  command :  "  Do  you 
doubt  me?  " 

Weiss  turned  his  head.  Clouds  were  drifting  across 
the  sky.  Here  and  there  a  blue  rift,  the  slanting  ladder 
of  a  sunbeam  stretching  down  to  an  invisible  point  of  the 
valley. 

Footsteps.     Frangois  approached  his  father  timidly. 

"  I  knew  where  I  should  find  you,  father." 

They  were  silent,  standing  side  by  side.  Frangois 
coughed  to  clear  his  voice. 

"  What  are  you  thinking  of,  father?  No,  don't  say. 
I  know  quite  well.  ...  I  have  considered.  .  .  . 
Alsatians  must  stay  in  Alsace.  To  stay  one  must 
deserve  to  stay  —  that  is  to  say,  one  must  suffer.  Don't 
be  afraid.  They  will  not  corrupt  me.  They  will  not 
humiliate  me.  The  more  they  treat  me  as  a  Wackes, 
the  prouder  I  shall  be.  So  many  others  have  held  out! 
And  there  will  be  six  of  us  to  struggle;  for  you,  mother, 
Suzanne,  Charles,  and  Jacques  especially,  will  all  be 
with  me." 

They  went  home  arm-in-arm.     And  Weiss  said: 

"We  are  trying  to  do  what  is  right.  May  God  help 
us!  I  want  you  to  take  away  something  grand  with  you, 
a  memory  which  will  keep  you  erect.  On  Sunday  we 
will  go  with  Bohler  and  his  sons  to  Wissembourg,  where 
the  monument  to  those  who  fell  in  1870  is  to  be  in- 
augurated. And  now  let  us  be  cheerful,  in  spite  of 
everything.     Men  were  bom  for  battle,  but  mothers  have 


224  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

hearts  of  honey.  We  must  cheer  yours  up.  For  the 
last  few  days  the  tears  have  been  coming  into  her  eyes 
very  readily.  So  this  evening  we  must  sing  the  thirty- 
two  verses  of  the  Bismarck  song  with  grandfather." 

On  eventful  days,  the  grandfather  joined  the  family 
party.  He  did  not  need  to  speak.  He  was  there,  with 
his  shining  forehead,  smooth  as  a  pebble  in  the  brook. 
That  was  enough.  Before  he  is  laid  to  rest,  he  ties  the 
threads  that  the  conqueror  will  seek  in  vain  to  break, 
with  a  look,  a  gesture  of  his  trembling  hand. 

The  grandfather  was  in  the  garden  with  Suzanne, 
who  ran  to  meet  the  newcomers. 

"  Look,  father,  what  grandfather  has  brought  you !  A 
tricoloured  cockade!  " 

"  I  took  it  from  the  souvenir  cupboard.  It  belonged 
to  my  uncle  who  fought  at  Wagram.  Victor,  you  must 
take  it  and  lay  it  upon  the  tomb  of  our  dead  at  Wissem- 
bourg.     My  uncle,  I,  you,  your  son  —  four  generations." 

There  was  a  moment  of  emotion.  But  the  grandfather 
added : 

"  And  when  is  Suzanne  going  to  oflFer  us  the  fifth?  " 

"  Grandfather,  at  your  age  one  ought  to  be  serious." 

"  I  am,  my  dear.  A  dozen  children  would  not  be  too 
many  to  carry  on  our  good  race  of  Weisses." 

Once  upon  a  time  there  was  a  little  town  set  between 
the  North,  where  it  is  always  raining,  and  the  fair  land 
of  sunshine.  Its  roofs  gleamed  red  amidst  the  gold  of 
harvest.     All  around  it  were  pleasant  hills. 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  225 

But  the  men  of  the  North,  yawning  beneath  their  fogs, 
were  waiting  for  the  spring  to  march  towards  joy,  pike- 
men  in  front,  chariots  behind.  When  assailed,  the  little 
town  defended  herself  as  best  she  could.  .  .  .  Ramparts 
were  thrown  up,  thick  ramparts  flanked  by  square  towers. 
The  peasants,  reassured,  returned  to  their  fields.  The 
seed  was  sown. 

"  They  will  not  come  back,"  said  the  hermit.  They 
came  back  in  greater  numbers,  with  more  deadly 
weapons,  and  shattered  a  high  wall.  There  were  many 
dead.  Reinforcements.  The  town  was  victorious. 
The  breach  in  the  wall  was  filled  up. 

Twenty  wax  tapers  were  burnt.  "  They  will  not  come 
back,"  said  the  old  priest.  The  grapes  were  gathered. 
The  wine-shops  winked  invitingly  under  the  pointed 
roofs.  The  wine  was  good.  Youths  and  maidens  danced 
under  the  trellis.  And  next  year,  it  is  said,  many  chil- 
dren were  born. 

Round  the  little  town,  living  its  life  and  living  it  well, 
great  empires  arose,  expanded,  and  picked  quarrels  with 
one  another.  What  are  old  ramparts  that  have  been 
patched  a  hundred  times,  and  are  cracked  all  over  for 
the  delight  of  the  maidenhair  fern,  against  a  covetous 
horde?  A  thrust,  a  rush.  The  walls  fell,  the  defenders 
died  bravely  under  the  shafts  of  the  whirlwind  swarms. 
In  the  paved  streets  the  charge  swept  on  with  a  thunder 
of  horses'  hoofs.  There  were  fires  and  rapine,  the  shrieks 
of  women,  the  yells  of  drunkards  in  the  darkness.  .  .  . 
A  supreme  effort.     The  town  was  free  at  last,  but  in- 


226  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

fested  with  blackened  corpses,  and  hearts  were  full  of 
phantoms. 

"They  will  not  come  back;  we  have  killed  too  many," 
said  the  Burgomaster  with  the  harsh  beard. 

During  these  repeated  ordeals,  the  little  town  had 
acquired  a  cheerful  serenity.  Familiarity  with  suffer- 
ing had  taught  it  to  fear  nothing;  the  old  people  knew 
the  rattle  of  pikes  against  a  closed  door  so  well  that  they 
ceased  to  tremble.  And  when  the  tocsin  of  war  sounded, 
the  citizens  embraced  their  wives  laughingly. 

This  little  town  was  called  Wissembourg. 

Once  again,  Abel  Douay  had  five  thousand  men  to 
defend  it.  The  pink  roofs  and  their  dormer  windows 
looked  down  on  women  leaning  out  of  casements,  the 
confidence  of  all  France  shining  in  their  eyes.  The  Tur- 
cos  were  watching.  The  hour  struck  from  the  steeples 
which  stretched  their  necks  upwards  among  the  trees. 
And  the  cock,  his  beak  pointing  heavenward  like  the 
steeples,  vigilant  as  they,  enlivened  the  night  with  his 
vibrant  trumpet-call.  On  the  morning  of  August  the  4th 
the  chief  addressed  his  men :  "  There  is  warm  work  be- 
fore us.  I  know  you.  You  keep  the  gates  of  France.  . ." 
There  was  not  time  to  say  more.  An  army  of  dark 
men  emerged  from  the  woods.  On  all  the  roads,  across 
all  the  fields  these  ants  swarmed.  They  were  felt  to  be 
under  every  tree,  behind  every  bush.  There  was  an 
atrocious  battle.  A  fountain  in  an  invaded  park  sobbed 
despairingly.  It  is  terrible  to  see  twenty  men  slaugh- 
tered by  three  hundred.     Livid  brows   leaned   against 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  227 

doors.  Soldiers  bit  each  other  as  they  rolled  on  the 
ground.  Hairy  hands  were  pressed  upon  throats.  For- 
ward! France!  Deutschland!  .  .  .  On  the  Geisberg 
behind  a  wall  were  Zouaves  with  their  triumphant  red 
breeches,  on  which  great  stains  of  blood  are  hardly  seen, 
the  black  demons  with  such  white  teeth  and  eyeballs  and 
cries  so  hoarse  that  they  strike  terror  to  the  heart  of  the 
enemy.  .  .  .  The  cannon  finishes  them.  ,  .  .  The  birds 
begin  to  sing  again.  August  the  4th !  It  is  evening,  and 
so  fine! 

At  nightfall  Prince  Henry  of  Prussia  desired  to  see 
Abel  Douay,  that  great  dead  man,  stretched  on  the  bed 
of  an  obscure  room.  He  looked  long  at  the  dead.  What 
were  his  thoughts?  He  saluted  and  withdrew.  Glory 
is  sometimes  heavy  to  bear.  In  the  gardens  were  flowers 
and  perfumes;  in  the  sky  were  stars.  Lying  round  the 
garden  fences,  on  the  steps,  in  the  streets,  on  the  road- 
sides, on  the  banks  of  the  river,  which  reflects  the  stars, 
what  masses  of  dead!  The  thirsty  earth  drank  in  the 
fresh  blood.  And  the  dying  wounded  said  to  this 
earth :  "  Our  hearts  are  giving  thee  our  blood,  drop 
by  drop;  corn  of  tomorrow,  we  shall  be  in  thee;  the 
bread  made  of  thy  flour  will  have  a  taste  of  mem- 
ory." 

Always  the  waves  of  Time  cover  up  what  is,  and  it 
becomes  that  which  was.  But  the  might  of  memory 
lurks  in  the  depths  of  this  Time  and  shakes  its  torch. 
No  blast  can  extinguish  it.  August  4th,  1870  —  October 
17th,  1909. 


228  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

Gentlemen  in  tall  hats  and  frock-coats,  cockades, 
braided  uniforms,  breasts  on  which  so  many  decorations 
gleam  that  one  wonders  if  there  is  still  room  left  for  the 
heart,  police  ofiicers  who  look  round  and  take  notes,  flags 
and  garlands.  The  little  town  blooms  into  colour  and 
surveys  the  scene.  Above  are  the  stands  where  work- 
men are  still  busy  with  their  hammers,  and  the  monument, 
mysterious  under  its  grey  covers.  ...  In  the  gardens, 
the  pale  heads  of  chrysanthemums,  in  the  meadows  the 
innumerable  mauve  cups  of  colchicums;  on  the  flank  of 
the  hills,  oxen  drawing  the  plough.  Sweetness  in  the  air, 
sweetness  on  the  horizon,  the  melancholy  of  things  about 
to  die.  The  sun  sets  in  a  sea  of  blood.  "  Mama," 
says  a  little  girl  to  her  mother,  "  you  always  say  that  the 
dead  are  in  heaven.  So  they  will  not  be  there  tomor- 
row? " 

"  Yes,  yes.  They  come  back  on  one  day  in  every  year 
to  see  that  they  are  not  forgotten." 

More  gentlemen  in  tall  hats  and  frock-coats,  spiked 
helmets,  armlets,  and  cockades.  .  .  .  Will  those  the  dead 
are  waiting  for  not  come? 

They  come.  These  old  men  who  walk  slowly,  dragging 
their  legs  a  little  —  one  has  lost  an  arm,  another  an  eye 
—  are  the  survivors  of  the  fierce  struggle.  To  prove  that 
they  are  not  phantoms  they  have  been  the  first  to  come 
and  raise  a  trumphal  arch.  They  feel  a  bit  dizzy  on  the 
top  of  a  ladder,  and  their  hammers  do  not  always  hit  the 
nail  on  the  head.  The  town  hears  with  emotion  of  the 
project  of  those  who  defended  it  so  well,  one  of  whom, 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  229 

a  cripple,  who  has  been  brought  to  the  spot  in  a  wheel- 
barrow, is  seated  on  the  strange  vehicle,  and  thence  di- 
rects the  work,  winks,  advises,  and  encourages.  The 
garden-gates  open.  Women  bring  armfuls  of  chrysan- 
themums, immortals,  and  the  blood-red  foliage  of  Vir- 
ginian creeper.  Madame  Abette,  the  mistress  of  the  gro- 
cer's shop  at  the  corner,  supplies  the  balls  of  string.  She 
explains : 

"  I  saw  them  myself,  defiling  before  my  shop  on  the 
morning  of  August  the  3rd.  How  well  they  marched! 
The  next  day  one  of  them  came  to  die  on  the  bench  under 
my  window." 

"Then,  you  will  remember  me,"  said  the  old  man  in 
the  wheelbarrow.     "  In  those  days  I  was  on  horseback." 

"And  I  hadn't  a  round  back  in  those  days." 

They  come.  Before  they  started,  the  old  women  went 
round  the  gardens,  gathering  the  autumn  flowers,  those 
queens  of  a  day,  so  fair  that  they  should  only  be  offered 
to  the  dead.  They  have  bound  them  into  bouquets,  these 
smiles  of  the  soil.  .  .  .  Now  there  is  a  circle  of  faith- 
ful faces  round  the  tombs,  so  bare  before.  The  cockade 
of  the  uncle  who  fought  at  Wagram  is  hidden  under  roses. 
The  berries  and  foliage  of  Alsace  lie  warm  upon  the 
stone,  bearing  with  them  something  of  her  sunshine  and 
perfume. 

She  comes,  the  Alsace  of  instincts  and  of  toil,  the 
brooding  Alsace  of  week-days  and  of  the  years  of  silence. 
.  .  .  She  comes  by  all  the  roads  that  wind  round  the 
foot  of  the  mountains.     There  are  moving  dots  on  their 


230  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

grey  network.  The  big  farm-horses  with  their  jangling 
bells  draw  the  grandfather,  the  little  ones,  the  woman, 
the  man.  Coming  from  villages  lost  in  the  blue  distance, 
their  breasts  contract  with  an  emotion  they  cannot  ex- 
plain (for  one  cannot  explain  the  thing  that  comes  from 
the  depths)  when  they  see  the  black  crowd  swelling,  and 
the  veiled  monument  looming  larger  before  them.  They 
come,  the  parish  priests  in  their  cassocks,  the  factory  fore- 
men, the  workmen  pedalling  along,  grey  with  dust.  She 
comes,  the  woman  with  toil-worn  hands,  her  children 
hanging  to  her  skirts,  and  follows  her  husband,  the  man 
with  the  pipe.  They  come,  the  tanned  vine-dressers; 
yesterday  the  grapes  were  in  the  vats;  they  were  tasting 
the  sweet  must  and  kissing  laughing  girls;  today  they 
answer  to  the  call,  the  old  who  saw  and  who  keep  their 
eyelids  half  closed  over  their  dream,  and  the  young  who 
have  served  the  conqueror. 

How  many  are  there?  .  .  .  Fifty  thousand?  A  hun- 
dred thousand?  Living  souls  bending  over  the  dry 
bones. 

Already,  the  brasses  of  the  German  bands,  gilded  and 
resplendent,  are  playing  grave  airs,  the  fifes  rend  the  air. 
But  it  is  for  the  dead  the  crowd  has  come,  those  dead 
who  sleep  on  the  hill  surrounded  by  many  other  hills 
scattered  as  far  as  the  eye  can  reach  under  the  sober 
light  of  an  October  Sunday. 

The  crowd  waits,  bristling  with  the  standards  of  ban- 
ners, spreading  out  into  space.  Behind  it  are  forty  years 
of  silence.     Before  it  is  this  unique  day.     A  man  appears 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  231 

at  the  back,  resting  his  two  hands  on  the  edge  of  the 
tribune.  What  is  he  saying?  .  .  .  Under  its  wrappings 
the  monument  looks  like  an  enormous  coffin  about  to  be 
lowered  into  the  grave.  .  .  .  "He's  too  far  off!  "  say 
the  voices.  "  We  can't  hear."  Suddenly  dominating  the 
crowd,  another  man  built  like  a  woodman,  with  epic 
shoulders,  appears;  his  face  is  like  a  roughly  cast  medal; 
there  is  a  certain  austerity  in  his  emotion.  The  colossus 
measures  the  extent  of  these  heads;  he  drinks  in  all  their 
uneasy  thoughts  with  a  deep  breath;  now  he  is  looking 
further  and  higher,  at  the  hills,  the  horizon,  the  soft  blue 
of  the  distance.  Then,  feeling  that  the  country  is  with 
him  and  near  him,  his  voice  rings  out  like  a  clarion.  The 
eleven  hundred  veterans  who  wear  the  medals  of  Mexico, 
Italy,  the  Crimea,  trembled,  and  Alexandre  Baudot,  who 
sounded  the  charge  at  Malakoff,  straightens  the  back 
bowed  by  his  eighty-three  years. 

"  Noble  sons  of  Alsace !  I  salute  those  who  persisted 
in  a  hopeless  resistance.  I  salute  them  in  the  name  of 
their  comrades,  in  the  name  of  the  French  officers,  in 
the  name  of  the  Republic.  Suffering  unites  men  more 
closely  than  glory,  for  we  love  in  proportion  to  the  suf- 
fering we  have  endured  in  common.  .  .  .  Soldiers  who 
died  for  France,  immortality  is  yours,  and  memory  is 
ours.  I  press  the  kiss  of  France  upon  the  stone  of  your 
tombs!  " 

At  this  moment  the  speaker,  his  right  arm  raised  to 
heaven,  his  breast  swelling,  his  forehead  bathed  in  light, 
accumulates  in  himself  all  the  anguish,  all  the  hopes  of 


232  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

the  crowd,  suddenly  united  by  an  invisible  bond.  .  .  . 
"Look!  "  said  Weiss  to  those  near  him.  They  turned 
round.  At  the  sight  of  these  thousands  and  thousands 
of  men  whose  serried  ranks  cover  the  hill,  of  all  the 
upturned  eyes  flashing  strange  fire,  they  trembled. 

"  Alsatians,  when  you  stop  before  this  monument,  bare 
your  heads,  bow  low,  listen  to  the  passing  of  the  souls  of 
your  ancestors." 

There  was  an  ardent  bugle-call,  and  then  the  solemn 
sounds  of  a  chorale:  Behold!  how  sweetly  do  they  sleep. 
The  drapery  that  was  drawn  aside  reveals  the  bare  stone, 
the  genius  of  the  Fatherland  ready  to  take  flight,  the 
cock  uttering  his  morning  greeting  to  the  sun.  The 
heart  of  the  crowd  ceases  to  beat.  Foreheads  are  pale, 
people  grasp  a  neighbour's  arm,  look  at  each  other.  Is 
it  possible?  Is  it  credible?  These  red,  white,  and  blue 
flags,  these  flags  of  the  veterans  who  have  come  from 
France,  which  flutter  and  float,  this  blare  of  trumpets 
rising,  muttering,  rolling  down  the  hills  to  the  little  town 
seated  behind  the  yellowing  orchards.  The  Marseillaise 
,  .  .  The  Prussian  officers  are  standing,  motionless  as 
statues,  leaning  on  the  hilts  of  their  swords,  with  im- 
passible faces  and  strongly  marked  jaws.  .  .  .  Allans 
en f ants  de  la  patrie!  .  .  .  Hearts  contract  with  a  spasm 
of  surprise.  Heads  are  bared.  The  will  had  nothing  to 
do  with  this  movement  of  the  hands.  It  was  commanded 
by  the  heart,  which  begins  to  beat  again  impetuously. 
Men  look  at  each  other  again.  Is  it  true?  For  forty 
years   they   have   held   their   peace.    For   forty   years 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  233 

prudence  and  fear  have  been  their  companions,  trampling 
down  sentiment  and  chilling  generous  impulses.  For 
forty  years  the  phantom  of  defeat  has  followed  them  as 
faithfully  as  their  shadows!  .  .  .  And  suddenly  this  flag, 
this  hymn  of  a  resuscitated  people! 

There  are,  no  doubt,  in  the  crowd  some  who  have  come 
from  idle  curiosity,  some  sceptics,  some  indifferent  souls, 
perhaps  even  some  who  have  rallied  to  the  master  who 
pays  well.  At  this  moment  these  have  no  time  to  weigh 
the  pros  and  the  cons,  to  let  the  head  master  the  heart. 
It  is  too  beautiful!  Too  great!  Too  real!  All  they 
thought  was  dead  warms  their  blood  till  it  boils.  .  .  . 
Prodigious  introspective  moment,  when  the  soul  of  a  peo- 
ple, surprised  in  its  instinctive  truth,  is  laid  bare !  .  .  . 

Tears  roll  from  the  eyes  of  veterans  into  their  white 
moustaches;  they  beat  time;  Baudot,  who  sounded  the 
charge  at  Malakoff,  is  the  first  to  accompany  the  fanfare 
with  his  broken  voice,  then  another  takes  it  up,  and  an- 
other. .  .  .  Oh!  it  is  something  not  to  be  forgotten,  not 
to  have  suffered  in  vain!  .  .  .  After  the  long  nightmare 
to  find  a  house  where  one  is  happy.  There  is  the  short, 
hurried  breathing  of  exiles  who  press  against  the  warm 
heart  of  their  recovered  country,  the  formidable  respira- 
tion of  a  crowd  dominated  by  a  common  thought.  And 
suddenly  this  cry,  which  drowns  the  voice  of  the 
trumpets: 

"  Aux  armes,  citoyens,  formez  vos  bataillons!  " 

Who  would  have  expected  such  a  cry?  It  gushes  out 
as  springs  gush  after  an  earthquake,  in  a  wild,  splendid 


234  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

rush.  It  is  the  seething,  frenzied  aspiration  of  all  souls 
towards  liberty. 

Magnificent  old  men,  already  bending  down  towards 
the  earth  that  calls  you;  young  men  with  quivering  nos- 
trils, if  your  eyes  are  full  of  tears,  it  is  because  the  dead 
of  Wissembourg  live  again  in  you! 

They  possess  you,  these  uneasy  dead,  whom  only  Jus- 
tice will  appease! 

Talking  low,  warmed  by  the  fire  of  sympathy  kindled 
on  the  hill,  Alsace  takes  her  departure.  Peasants,  vine- 
dressers, workmen,  and  middle-class  citizens,  they  are 
now  but  minute  specks  on  the  roads  that  lead  to  the  habi- 
tations of  men.  From  them  all  the  others  will  hear  the 
story:  the  old  woman  who  gathered  flowers  in  the  morn- 
ing, the  old  man  who  cannot  leave  his  arm-chair,  the  chil- 
dren sitting  round  the  table  in  the  lamplight.  They  will 
tell  it  to  the  best  of  their  ability.  Their  eyes  will  tell 
the  rest,  the  things  for  which  there  are  no  words.  Once 
again,  swift  and  mysterious,  passing  over  hedges  and 
fences,  walls  and  gratings,  the  word  of  command  will  run 
through  the  country:  "Stand  fast!"  All  know  what 
this  will  cost,  what  persecutions  are  in  store.  They  read 
on  the  faces  of  the  officers  leaning  on  their  swords,  when 
the  Marseillaise  rang  out,  a  cold  determination  to  crush 
this  people,  guilty  of  the  crime  of  fidelity.  (It  would 
mean  Saverne,  war.)  But  they  know,  too,  that  the  crime 
brings  about  its  own  punishment,  that  contempt  of  human 
dignity  entails  defeat,  and  brutal  pride  ends  in  abasement. 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  235 

They  have   only   to   wait.     Well,   they  will   wait.  .  .  . 

"Don't  let  us  talk;  it  was  too  splendid,"  said  Jean 
Bohler. 

"  Father,  after  that  we  may  well  suffer  a  little,"  said 
Frangois  Weiss. 

The  parents  made  no  answer.  Reymond,  too,  was 
silent,  overwhelmed  by  the  hour  he  had  just  lived 
through. 

They  had  sat  down  away  from  the  crowd.  From  min- 
ute to  minute  Weiss  would  repeat:  "I  am  drunk  — 
drunk  with  pride,  pride  in  my  Alsace.  That  hour  was 
really  worth  forty  years  of  suffering.  Yes,  I  am  proud 
of  my  Alsace !  .  .  .  Boys,  be  thankful  that  you  can  begin 
life  with  this  memory  in  your  hearts." 

"Do  you  remember  our  return  home  after  the  war, 
Weiss?  "  said  Monsieur  Bohler.  "  We  had  fought  as 
well  as  we  could,  we  poor  Mobiles  of  the  Upper  Rhine: 
badly  armed,  badly  shod,  shoved  this  way  one  day,  and 
that  another.  And  then  suddenly  to  have  to  look  this 
thing  in  the  face:  Alsace  German!  Alsace,  the  most 
French  of  all  the  provinces  of  France!  What  a  return! 
To  hear  those  butts  of  rifles  falling  on  the  pavements  of 
our  little  towns,  where  joy  had  reigned.  To  hear  the 
laughter  of  the  intruders,  their  heavy,  sinister  laughter! 
It  was  enough  to  drive  one  mad !  And  every  day,  every 
hour  for  months  and  years,  to  witness  their  robberies 
from  the  past,  their  suborning  of  hearts.  .  .  .  We  could 
close  our  shutters,  lock  and  bolt  ourselves  in.  But  their 
songs  of  triumph  rose  to  us  from  the  streets. 


236  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

"And  then  those  two  processions  in  opposite  direc- 
tions! From  the  depths  of  Lorraine  to  the  extreme  point 
of  Alsace,  those  who  were  on  their  way  to  rejoin  France: 
carts  carrying  the  bed,  the  walnut-wood  cupboard,  the 
table  on  which  one's  elbows  have  rested  as  long  as  one 
can  remember  .  .  . ;  two  hundred  thousand  human  beings 
leaving  everything  that  had  been  their  life  behind  them! 
And  that  other  procession  from  the  other  side:  on  the 
bridges  of  the  Rhine  the  army  of  immigrants,  all  the 
starvelings  of  Germany,  a  whole  horde  dressed  in  green, 
with  a  feather  in  their  hats  and  spectacles  on  their  noses, 
ten  brats  clinging  to  the  skirts  of  their  mother,  who  was 
expecting  her  eleventh.  .  .  .  And  very  soon  all  the  brood 
installed  in  gardens  still  gay  with  the  flowers  planted  by 
those  we  had  known.  .  .  .  How  did  we  live  through  those 
times?  Ten  years,  twenty  years,  thirty  years,  nearly 
forty  years!  Forty  years!  And  you  have  just  heard 
the  answer  of  Alsace!     Ah!  my  boys,  my  boys!  " 

No  one  had  ever  seen  Monsieur  Bohler  in  such  a  state 
before. 

"  Bohler,  my  friend,"  said  Weiss,  "  give  me  your  hand. 
Let  us  all  shake  hands,  fathers  and  sons!  " 

They  pressed  each  other's  hands,  Frangois,  Charles, 
Jean,  Rene,  the  two  fathers,  and  all  had  tears  in  their 
eyes. 

"You  will  see,  father,"  repeated  the  boys  in  a  sort  of 
exaltation. 

Night  came  down  upon  the  plain.  .  .  .  On  the  top  of 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  237 

the  hill,  the  genius  of  the  Fatherland,  the  cock,  the  sand- 
stone pyramid  hewn  from  the  Vosges,  visible  things;  on 
the  hillside,  the  dead,  those  invisible  witnesses,  those  great 
living  forces  which  hold  the  men  who  are  making  their 
way  along  the  roads  of  Alsace  more  closely  captive  than 
ever. 

It  is  the  hour  of  good-byes  and  departures. 

Madame  Weiss  and  Suzanne  have  packed  the  box, 
folded  the  linen,  slipped  the  surprise  that  is  to  remind 
the  absent  one  of  home  under  the  waistcoat.  Now  they 
are  grouped  in  the  dining-room,  which  is  sunnier  than 
the  drawing-room,  and  little  Marie  is  astride  on  her 
grandfather's  knee.  The  portrait  of  the  dead  boy  looks 
down  upon  them  all  from  the  wall.  It  was  in  this  room 
that  they  had  gathered  to  bid  him  farewell.  Hearts  are 
deeply  moved. 

There  was  a  ring  at  the  door.     It  was  Reymond. 

"  When  do  you  start,  Frangois?  " 

"  Tomorrow  morning.  I  shall  be  at  Breslau  tomorrow 
night.     And  you?  " 

"Tomorrow  evening." 

"But  you  will  come  back  to  see  us,"  said  Madame 
Weiss.  "  You  must  often  think  of  your  friends  in  Alsace 
when  you  are  in  your  beautiful  canton  of  Vaud.  They 
will  need  sympathy,  unless  .  .  ." 

"  Unless  .  .  ."  repeated  the  grandfather. 

"  Unless  .  .  ."  echoed  Weiss. 


238  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

They  passed  round  the  brown-paper  album  which 
Charles  had  given  to  his  brother.  Silvery  petals  starred 
the  pages,  all  the  flora  of  the  valley. 

"  The  scent  of  the  country,"  says  the  grandfather. 

Reymond  got  up. 

"  I  thank  you  for  all  the  kindness  and  affection  you 
have  shown  me  throughout  these  two  years,  which  have 
passed  so  quickly.  ...  I  carry  away  memories  I  shall 
never  evoke  without  pride  and  sadness  also,  for  I  know 
now  on  what  a  family  in  Alsace  lives,  and  how  much 
resignation  and  courage  they  need  to  carry  on.  ...  I 
will  not  say  '  Courage !  '  to  him  who  is  leaving  you,  for 
he  has  so  much.     May  God  bring  him  back  to  you!  " 

They  were  all  assembled  on  the  doorstep.  Suzanne 
was  smiling  rather  sadly.  Why  was  this  Reymond  not 
an  Alsatian?  Little  Marie  waved  her  handkerchief, 
Weiss  his  hand,  and  Charles  called  out: 

"  You  must  write  to  me.  Monsieur." 

Reymond  looks  back.     Dear  people,  good  friends! 

And  now  the  tutor  is  taking  a  last  walk  round  the 
park  with  his  pupils.  With  two  bounds,  Rene  is  at  the 
foot  of  a  pine-tree,  climbs  to  the  top,  and  slips  from 
branch  to  branch. 

"This  will  be  useful  to  me  when  I  am  a  Chasseur 
Alpin." 

"What!  Yesterday  you  wanted  to  go  into  the  air- 
service!  " 

"No;  I  will  be  an  Alpin.     It's  a  fine  calling." 

They  left  the  Alpin  to  his  own  devices. 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  239 

"And  you  have  quite  made  up  your  mind,  Jean? 
Literature  is  what  attracts  you?  " 

"  I  am  so  fond  of  history." 

"  Of  course  we  shall  find  each  other  again  in  life. 
From  this  time  forth  you  are  my  friend  Jean." 

They  look  at  each  other,  and  this  look  is  a  compact. 

"  If  you  only  knew,  Monsieur,  how  strange  it  seems 
to  me  to  go!  I  can't  realize  it.  To  think  that  we  shall 
never  live  in  Alsace  again;  that  all  this  is  over  .  .  ." 

His  voice  trembles.     Reymond  speaks  of  other  things. 

"Who  is  going  to  Paris  with  you?  " 

"Father.  Mother  is  too  tired.  She  will  come  later, 
when  we  are  settled  at  Professor  Paget's." 

Julie  was  at  her  kitchen-window. 

"And  you  are  going  to  stay,  Julie.     You  are  lucky." 

"What  can  we  do.  Monsieur  Jean?"  says  the  old 
Champenoise;  "  some  go  and  some  stay.     Such  is  life!  " 

"  I  leave  mother  in  your  charge.  You  must  write  to 
me  every  week  to  tell  me  how  she  is,  and  if  she  looks 
sad.    And  this  evening  you  are  to  give  her  this  letter." 

"Never  fear;  I  will  take  good  care  of  her.  I  have 
been  doing  nothing  else  for  twenty-nine  years." 

Rapid  footsteps  crunch  the  gravel. 

"  It's  father,"  said  Jean.  "  I  think  he  is  looking  for 
you.     I  still  have  half  an  hour.     I  will  go  to  mother." 

The  two  men  strolled  along  the  paths. 

"  You  are  more  fortunate  than  my  sons.  Monsieur 
Reymond.  You  will  come  back  to  us.  We  shall  always 
receive  you  as  a  friend.    And  we  shall  no  doubt  go  and 


240  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

spend  a  little  of  the  holiday-time  in  your  country.  I 
am  anxious  that  you  should  keep  in  touch  with  my  boys. 
They  are  very  fond  of  you.  You  will  remind  them  of  the 
pleasant  years  in  Alsace." 

They  went  back  to  the  house.  Although  no  one  had 
spoken  of  departure,  the  dog  understood.  Seated  under 
the  table  he  moaned  dismally,  and  came  occasionally  to 
sniif  at  the  legs  of  his  young  masters. 

In  the  hall  the  luggage  was  piled  up  for  the  coachman 
to  take.  Madame  Bohler  busied  herself  with  prosaic  de- 
tails, wrapped  in  a  silence  which  betrayed  a  maternal 
tenderness  ready  to  melt  into  tears. 

"  The  carriage  is  at  the  door." 

"My  beloved  boys!  "  said  Madame  Bohler,  biting  her 
lips. 

Her  two  sons  were  in  her  arms.  They  clasped  each 
other  close. 

Reymond  disappeared  discreetly.     He  said  to  Jean: 

"  I  will  wait  for  you  near  the  road-keeper's  cottage." 

One  page  is  turned,  the  page  of  youth,  of  long  evenings 
in  the  sheltered  nest,  of  the  melody  of  piano  and  violon- 
cello, of  intimate  talk.  If  they  sob,  in  spite  of  their 
resolution,  it  is  because  they  know  well  what  they  are 
leaving  behind  them.     The  page  is  written.     It  is  turned. 

In  the  house  the  travellers  have  just  left,  there  are 
the  empty  hall,  the  palms,  the  stag's  horns,  the  coat  of 
mail,  the  glass  which  reflects  all  these  familiar  things. 
Old  Julie  knocks  at  the  door  of  the  little  drawing-room. 
It  is  some  time  before  there  is  any  answer. 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  241 

"  Does  Madame  want  anything?  " 

"  No,  thank  you,  Julie." 

"There  is  a  letter  for  Madame  from  Monsieur 
Jean." 

Reymond  waits  near  the  level  crossing.  Here  is  the 
little  panting  train,  and  for  a  moment  he  sees  the  profiles 
of  the  two  boys,  Rene  already  consoled,  already  looking 
forward  to  the  new  life,  and  Jean  pale,  with  knitted 
brows.  A  last  signal.  Once  again,  once  more,  the  little 
train  bears  off  some  of  the  sorrow  of  Alsace. 

The  hour  of  departure  and  farewells  has  come  for 
Reymond.  He  lingers  in  the  Schmolers'  garden.  Above 
the  russet  foliage  he  sees  the  roofs  of  Friedensbach,  the 
dormer  windows,  the  weathercocks  and  the  gables  play- 
ing hide-and-seek,  roofs  set  on  the  houses  like  caps.  ,  .  . 
On  one  of  them  is  the  stork's  nest.  And  down  below  is 
the  river,  whose  waters  look  like  dancing  beams  in  the 
sunlight;  a  streamlet  winds  its  silver  thread  under  the 
privet-bushes  covered  with  fruit;  kneeling  on  a  plank,  an 
apron  folded  under  their  knees,  women  wring  out  the 
hempen  sheets,  laughing  and  dipping  their  red  arms  into 
the  rippling  water.  Up  higher  are  the  flaming  woods 
and  the  bushes  with  their  purple  berries.  Once  more  he 
hears  the  clatter  of  the  workmen's  sabots  on  the  pavement. 
Once  more  the  geese  pass  along  in  single  file,  limping  and 
gabbling.  Once  more  it  is  noon,  and  the  ofi&cials  pro- 
nounce their  Mahlzeit!  They  dine.  And  then  Reymond 
shakes  hands  and  says  farewell. 


242  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

Old  Jacobine  is  on  the  threshold,  so  neat  in  her  white 
cap. 

"  We  shall  miss  you  very  much.  If  you  want  to  see 
us  again  in  this  world,  you  must  come  back  soon.  My 
husband  will  be  at  the  station.  He  will  bring  you  a  few 
apples  and  pears  to  eat  on  the  journey.  Here,  Jacob, 
say  good-bye  to  Monsieur  Reymond." 

The  shoemaker  is  hammering  at  his  soles.  The  little 
life  goes  on.  The  fountain  murmurs  Ein  .  ,  .  zwei  ,  .  . 
drei.  In  the  square  in  front  of  the  school  the  boys, 
marching  stiffly  in  pairs,  stamp  on  the  ground  as  they 
will  do  later  in  their  regiments.  Kummel  is  in  command. 
He  comes  forward. 

"  Good-bye,  Monsieur  Reymond.  A  pleasant  journey. 
And  mind  you  tell  them  in  French  Switzerland,  where 
they  are  rather  inclined  to  make  fun  of  everything,  what 
order  reigns  in  Alsace,  what  discipline,  what  prosperity! 
Good-bye.  We  shall  certainly  meet  again.  One  never 
can  tell  what  may  happen.  Yes,  we  shall  meet  again! 
Good-bye." 

Old  Schmoler  hands  over  his  parcel. 

"  They  are  ripe,  they  smell  good.  Good-bye,  Monsieur 
Reymond.     Come  back  to  us." 

The  police  officer  has  approached,  for  it  is  always  well 
to  know  what  people  are  saying.  And  it  is  a  kind  of 
allegory  of  Alsace  on  this  station  platform:  the  bent  old 
man  with  his  kindly  face  and  stiff  back,  and  this  upturned 
moustache. 

Once  more  Friedensbach  at  the  foot  of  its  hills,  Fried- 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  243 

ensbach  with  its  smoking  roofs,  the  familiar  paths,  the 
scattered   goats   on   the   slopes  —  but  no   Seppi !  —  the 
Weisses'  house,  the  Bohlers'  house. 
Good-bye,  little  valley! 


XII 


THEY  met  again  in  the  plain,  in  Valais:  the  pupils 
now  young  men,  tall  and  broad,  with  brown  or  fair 
moustaches;  Monsieur  and  Madame  Bohler;  Monsieur 
and  Madame  Weiss;  Suzanne.  The  meeting  was  all  the 
more  enjoyable  in  that  it  could  hardly  have  been  hoped 
for.  Jean  and  Charles,  both  in  barracks;  one  in  France, 
the  other  in  Germany,  had  had  some  difficulty  in  making 
their  respective  ten  days'  leave  coincide.  And  Rene,  a 
dashing  Second  Lieutenant,  just  through  his  training! 
What  a  red-letter  day  it  was!  And  how  joyously  Rey- 
mond's  proposal  of  an  excursion  to  the  mountains  to  see 
the  sunrise  was  received! 

The  boys  waved  their  hats,  wild  with  delight.  The 
parents  and  Suzanne,  seated  on  the  hotel  terrace,  smiled 
indulgently  at  this  display  of  high  spirits. 

They  went  up  in  the  twilight,  in  the  darkness,  by  a 
rocky  path.  .  .  .  Valleys,  rugged  peaks,  trees  bending 
over  the  abyss,  were  soon  blotted  out.  They  recognized 
each  other  by  their  voices.  Sometimes  the  flash  of  an 
electric  torch  showed  them  a  swift  vision  of  a  great  tree- 
trunk,  like  a  crouching  monster,  or  of  a  lichen  hanging 
to  a  gnarled  branch  like  a  beard  on  the  chin  of  a  gnome. 

These  former  playfellows  and  fellow-students  came 
together  again  more  readily  after  their  long  separation 
in  this  clamber  among  shadows  than  they  had  done  the 

244 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  245 

evening  before,  seated  on  wicker  chairs  in  the  hotel 
verandah.  Yesterday  even  the  two  brothers  had  felt 
almost  like  strangers  to  each  other.  Now  the  one  no 
longer  thinks  that  he  is  taller  than  the  other  and  has 
more  moustache;  they  find  their  natural  souls  again,  not 
those  improvised  by  the  fever  of  cities,  the  mechanism 
of  the  barracks,  but  the  good  simple  souls  that  ripened 
on  the  slopes  of  a  green  valley  in  the  Vosges.  Domi- 
nated by  the  unknown  things  around  them,  by  the  jagged 
peaks  they  know  to  be  above  them,  though  they  cannot 
see  them,  they  no  longer  swagger;  under  this  starry  sky, 
a  true  garden  of  mystery,  they  are  artless  as  they  used 
to  be.  ...  A  question.  .  .  .  Another.  .  .  .  They  cap 
each  other's  stories. 

"Where  are  you  teaching  now.  Monsieur?  " 

"  At  Montreux." 

"And  are  your  pupils  nice?  " 

"  Very  nice." 

A  silence. 

"  Charles,  what  is  your  brother  Frangois  doing?  " 

"  He  is  finishing  his  legal  studies  at  Strasburg.  They 
are  expecting  him  shortly  at  Friedensbach.  He  is  to 
remain  there  several  months  to  prepare  his  thesis." 

"What  is  the  subject?" 

"Oh!  some  very  technical  affair!  ...  I  have  for- 
gotten." 

"AndEmileZumbach?" 

"He  is  at  the  school  of  chemistry  at  Mulhouse.  He 
begins  his  military  service  this  autumn." 


246  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

"Where?" 

"  Oh !  with  the  Schwobs.  .  .  .  He's  a  true  Alsatian, 
that  fellow.  He  doesn't  say  much,  but  he's  the  right 
sort.  A  regiment  of  Zumbachs  would  give  a  good 
account  of  themselves  .  .  ." 

"Against  us,  perhaps?  "  interrupted  Rene. 

"  Don't  worry  about  him.  ...  If  ever  it  comes  to  that 
he  will  manage  to  be  on  the  right  side,  like  a  good  many 
others  I  know." 

"And  Andre  Berger?" 

Rene  answers  this  time: 

"  He  makes  me  sick.  He  has  become  such  a  lump  of 
affectation.  When  he  speaks  you  would  think  his  mouth 
was  full  of  powdered  sugar.  .  .  .  And  then,  he  always 
knows  everything.  .  .  .  He,  too,  is  in  barracks,  at  Au- 
gers, I  believe.  Normally,  he  is  working  at  literature. 
It  seems  that  he  is  already  writing  for  the  reviews.  .  .  . 
He  disgusts  me." 

"  And  you,  Jean :  you  are  not  talking." 

"  I  am  listening  to  you.  .  .  .  And  then,  it's  all  I  can 
do  to  find  my  way.  You  must  have  pity  on  those  who 
wear  glasses." 

"  Service  for  three  years,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Yes.     I  have  two  years  more  now." 

"He's  just  been  made  a  sergeant,"  said  Rene,  rather 
patronizingly. 

"Yes,  Lieutenant." 

They  laughed. 

"  And  what  about  your  historical  studies?  " 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  247 

"Ah!     I  mustn't  think  of  them  now." 

There  was  a  sound  of  footsteps  on  the  stones. 

"  It's  a  queer  business !  "  exclaimed  Charles  suddenly. 
"  Odd  that  a  fellow  called  Princip  should  have  murdered 
an  Arch-Duke.  Who  knows,  perhaps  all  the  nations  of 
Europe  will  be  slaughtering  each  other  presently  because 
of  this  Princip  .  .  ." 

"Bah!"  rejoined  Reymond;  "they'll  calm  down. 
They  will  squeeze  the  Serbians.  They'll  exact  compensa- 
tion. They're  too  prosperous  to  want  to  put  a  match  to 
the  powder.     It  would  be  absurd." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  of  that,"  answered  Charles.  "  The 
water  in  the  Pan-German  boiler  is  bubbling.  ...  It  is 
boiling  over.  .  .  .  There  is  enough  steam  to  blow  every- 
thing sky-high.  All  the  talk  is  of  armaments,  equipment, 
victualling,  fleet,  dry  powder,  sharp  swords,  colonies,  big 
guns,  machine-guns,  and  submarines.  They  dream  only 
of  Zeppelins.  They  are  building  super-Zeppelins.  The 
more  these  collapse,  the  more  they  build.  They  wear 
Zeppelin  caps,  they  eat  Zeppelin  sausages,  they  smoke 
Zeppelin  cigars,  they  write  with  Zeppelin  pens.  .  .  . 
Krupp,  Flottenverein,  and  Zeppelin  —  Zeppelin,  Krupp, 
and  Flottenverein.  It  must  mean  one  or  the  other  of  two 
things:  either  they  have  gone  out  of  their  minds  or  they 
are  preparing  a  colossal  war.  .  .  .  What  is  it?  " 

"  Just  listen  to  that  stone  rolling." 

It  falls  with  a  muffled  sound,  crumbles  and  bounds 
against  the  rocks,  whistles  and  sinks  into  the  abyss. 

"Aha!     That  comes  of  talking  of  war!  " 


248  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

"  It  frightened  me  .  .  .  those  leaps  .  .  .  those  silences 
.  .  .  that  explosion  .  .  .  and  that  '  plop  '  into  the  void 
with  the  vague  echo  that  came  up  to  us.  .  .  .  Walk  in  the 
middle  of  the  path." 

"  I  liked  it.  .  .  .  It  was  like  a  shell.  Capital !  I  feel 
like  a  little  boy  again  this  evening.  It's  splendid  for  us 
four  to  be  together  again.  No  cares  .  .  .  the  stars  .  .  . 
on  we  go  in  the  darkness!  .  .  .  And  Monsieur  Rey- 
mond's  voice  from  time  to  time,  just  as  when  we  were  at 
Friedensbach.  It's  fine!  .  .  .  Again!  .  .  .  What's  that? 
.  .  .  Who  whistled? 

"A  marmot,  no  doubt,  watching  at  the  entrance  of 
the  burrow  where  her  young  are  nestling.  She  is  saying 
in  her  language :  '  Halt,  who  goes  there !  Advance  and 
give  the  countersign !  '  " 

"Poor  little  devil  of  a  marmot!  It's  a  queer  world, 
I  must  say.  That  marmot  who  has  hurried  into  her  hole 
to  tell  a  story  of  robbers  to  the  captain  of  her  band,  who 
has  wakened  with  a  start.  And  in  our  world,  those 
diplomatists  who  are  playing  heads  and  tails  with  the 
lives  of  several  millions  of  human  beings." 

"  If  there  should  be  war,  imagine  the  entry  into  Fried- 
ensbach! Bugles,  flags,  Sambre-et-Meuse.  .  .  .  Father 
and  Mother  throwing  flowers  .  .  .  Kummel  crouching  in 
a  cage.  War  is  splendid  fun!  .  .  .  We  would  greet  the 
dead  of  Wissembourg  as  we  pass.  .  .  .  After  Alsace  is 
retaken,  peace  shall  be  declared,  and  the  first  one  who  ob- 
jects, off  with  his  head!  " 

A  falling  star,  then  another,  detach  themselves  from  the 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  249 

garden  of  the  planets,  slip  along  the  sky,  shoot  out  their 
trail,  and  die. 

"  The  thing  that  disturbs  me,"  said  Reymond,  "  is  this 
phrase  in  the  newspapers:  *  There  is  still  a  glimmer  of 
hope.'     That  is  what  we  say  of  the  dying." 

The  laugh  of  a  night-bird  is  heard  in  the  silence. 

"  Horrid  creature !  " 

"Do  you  still  keep  up  your  gymnastics,  Rene?  " 

"  Yes,  indeed !  .  .  .  I  can  carry  twenty-one  kilos  with 
my  arm  extended.  But  what  I  like  best  is  the  attack:  to 
run  up  and  thrust  a  bayonet  into  the  belly  of  a  dummy. 
Chook!  " 

"Be  quiet;  you're  disgusting!  " 

"  It's  our  business.  We  shan't  get  Alsace  back  by 
gathering  plums.  Of  course  it's  disgusting,  but  as  long 
as  there  are  people  who  steal  countries,  we  shall  have  to 
do  '  chook !  '  Unless  we  prefer  to  bow  our  necks  to  the 
yoke.  There's  no  getting  out  of  this.  And  so,  Charles, 
you  are  going  back  there?  ...  If  the  crash  comes,  won't 
it  be  easy  to  make  tracks." 

"  When  I  asked  for  leave,  the  first  I  have  had  since 
I  went  to  the  barracks,  I  said  to  myself:  '  If  they  refuse 
it  will  be  because  there's  something  brewing,  and  I  shall 
slip  away  quietly  (I  am  only  fifteen  kilometres  from  the 
Russian  frontier) ....  If  they  grant  it,  I  shall  know  that 
I  have  time  to  finish  my  year  of  voluntary  service  with- 
out any  accidents.  .  .  .'  They  gave  ten  days'  leave  to 
ever  so  many  people." 

**You  said  just  now  that  you  believed  there  would 


250  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

be  war,  that  they  want  it.     You  contradict  yourself." 

"Not  at  all.  A  great  many  people  think  that  it  will 
be  declared  next  spring.  A  campaign  is  never  begun  in 
the  middle  of  the  summer.  .  .  .  Krupp  has  not  yet  de- 
livered the  very  big  guns.  .  .  .  Father  has  had  some 
private  information.  ...  I  tell  you,  it  will  be  next 
spring.  I  shall  have  time  to  get  away.  Don't  be  afraid. 
I  shall  be  there  for  the  great  encounter." 

"  Capital !  I  will  take  you  in  my  section.  If  you 
march  well,  I  will  make  you  a  corporal  the  second  week, 
when  we  enter  Germany.  .  .  .  Do  they  treat  you  badly 
in  your  regiment?  " 

"  Not  so  very  badly.  My  Lieutenant  behaves  very 
decently.  On  the  other  hand,  the  non-commissioned 
officers  are  brutes.  On  the  whole,  one  can  get  along  by 
dint  of  clenching  one's  fist  in  one's  pocket  a  hundred 
times  a  day." 

"  You  are  lucky  .  .  .  there  are  some  Alsatians  who 
lose  their  heads." 

"  If  you  would  hold  your  tongues  for  a  moment  .  .  . 
one  could  listen." 

"Listen  to  what?  " 

"  The  night." 

"Ah!  that's  Jean  all  over.  His  heart  craves  for  sen- 
timent .  .  .  stars,  moon,  dark  caves  .  .  ." 

"You  little  donkey!" 

"Lucky  for  you  I'm  not  in  uniform:  court-martial." 

They  come  to  the  deserted  chalet,  the  key  of  which 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  251 

had  been  given  to  Reymond.  They  enter,  and  sup  by  a 
fire  rapidly  kindled  on  the  stone  hearth. 

"And  now  try  to  go  to  sleep.  It  is  eleven  o'clock. 
We  must  be  up  at  three  if  we  want  to  surprise  the  sun 
at  his  rising.  Soldiers  ought  to  be  able  to  obey.  Unroll 
the  rugs,  lie  down  on  the  hay,  and  shut  your  eyes!  " 

There  was  a  smothered  laugh. 

"  Oh !  .  .  .  Monsieur,  he's  pinching  me !  " 

"Really,  you  are  greater  babies  than  you  were  at 
Friedensbach !  " 

Silence.  Before  lying  down  himself,  Reymond  sat  on 
the  bench  outside  the  chalet  for  a  moment.  How  the 
stars  twinkled! 

"  Who's  there?  " 

"  It's  I." 

"  My  friend  Jean !  I  am  glad  to  have  you  alone  for  a 
few  minutes." 

Around  them  was  a  bluish  glimmer,  a  sprinkling  of 
stars  —  below  as  well  as  above,  because  of  the  little  lake 
—  the  breath  of  space. 

"  We  might  be  going  to  behold  the  spectacle  of  crea- 
tion. I  think  we  could  gather  stars  if  we  stretched  out 
our  hands!  What  a  change  from  our  barrack  dormi- 
tory! " 

"  What  are  your  companions  like?  " 

"That  depends  on  the  moment.  .  .  .  Abject  .  .  . 
magnificent." 

They  talk  eagerly.     They  evoke  memories.     What  is 


252  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

happening  at  Friedensbach?  .  .  .  The  little  familiar 
life  goes  on  there  as  usual.  Day  after  day,  in  the  calm 
of  winter,  in  the  gladness  of  spring,  in  the  heat  of  sum- 
mer, in  the  melancholy  of  autumn,  each  one  weaves  the 
web  of  his  fate.  Jacobine  is  dead  and  old  Schmoler  is 
failing.  Kummel  seems  to  have  lost  balance  entirely. 
He  raves.     His  pupils  live  in  perpetual  terror  of  him. 

"Do  you  think  there  will  be  war,  Jean?  "  asks  Rey- 
mond  abruptly. 

Jean  meditates. 

"Who  shall  say?  .  .  .  Certainly,  we  are  doing  noth- 
ing to  provoke  it.  K  it  breaks  out,  it  will  be  because 
it  was  forced  upon  us.  In  that  case,  our  duty  will  be 
clear.  There  can  be  but  two  solutions:  slavery  or  vic- 
tory. War  is  mad,  ignoble;  but  it  becomes  sublime 
when  it  is  a  question  of  breaking  one's  chains.  .  .  .  Sup- 
pose this  night  were  the  vigil  before  battle?  In  any 
case,  I  am  ready;  I  may  say  so  without  boasting.  The 
thought  of  fighting  in  order  to  put  an  end  to  war  and  to 
deliver  Alsace  would  enable  one  to  pass  through  a  fur- 
nace. .  .  .  Unless  my  will  should  fail  me.  .  .  .  One 
never  knows.  .  .  ." 

"  It  will  not  fail  you,  my  friend  Jean." 

Reymond  laid  his  hand  on  his  young  friend's  shoulder. 
They  sat  facing  the  solitude  of  the  night,  listening  to 
the  lament  of  cascades  hanging  on  the  sides  of  the  rocks. 

"  What  is  finer.  Monsieur,  than  to  live  for  a  great  idea? 
.  .  .  And  when  the  hour  comes,  what  is  finer  than  to 
die  for  it?  " 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  253 

"  Nevertheless,  war  means  killing,  killing  men." 

"  To  me,  war  means  rather  the  offering  of  oneself  to 
death." 

"  In  that  case,  you  force  others  to  kill  you." 

"  Monsieur,  don't  say  that,  please.  Don't  upset  my 
convictions.  .  .  .  There  is  Alsace.  If  they  attack  us  and 
we  are  beaten,  all  France,  all  Europe,  would  be  an 
Alsace.  .  .  .  Switzerland,  too.  If  I  fight,  it  will  be  for 
you  .  .  .  for  .  .  ." 

"  My  friend  Jean,  say  no  more.  I  know  you.  I  know 
you  are  incapable  of  any  baseness.  ...  If  you  go,  you 
will  be  a  brave  soldier  of  the  Right.  It  is  not  our  fault 
if  there  are  men  who  force  a  painful  duty  on  us.  .  .  .  It 
is  still  a  duty." 

"  It  is  still  a  duty,"  repeated  Jean. 

An  icy  air  rose  from  the  hollow  of  the  valley.  They 
shivered. 

"  Let  us  go  in." 

What  are  the  diplomatists  doing  at  this  moment? 
What  are  the  spies  doing?  What  voices  are  counselling? 
What  hands  are  signing?  Where  are  the  men  who,  bend- 
ing over  maps,  are  dividing  and  partitioning? 

Three  o'clock.  Reymond  rises.  He  listens  to  the  reg- 
ular breathing  of  his  companions.  How  well  they  are 
sleeping!  The  herdsmen  are  already  stirring  in  the 
neighbouring  chalet,  built  so  close  against  the  rock  to 
escape  the  wind  that  it  is  hardly  distinguishable  there- 
from.  He  sees  the  light  of  a  swinging  lantern;  voices 
speak  to  the  lowing  cattle;  there  is  one  voice  shriller  than 


254  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

the  rest,  that  of  the  herd-boy,  the  bovairon,  which  is  like 
the  little  bell  on  a  calf.  Whistling  a  cheerful  air,  Rey- 
mond  approaches  this  chalet.  Outside  the  cowshed  is  a 
black-bearded  giant  whose  eyes  are  very  gentle,  clear  as 
space,  a  sailor's  eyes.  They  are  plainly  to  be  seen,  for 
he  raises  his  lantern  at  the  sound  of  footsteps. 

"  Good-morning.     Shall  we  be  troubling  you  .  .  ." 

"  It  depends.  .  .  .  Where  have  you  come  from  at  this 
hour?  " 

"We  are  at  the  Boitsy  chalet;  we  slept  there  last 
night." 

"  Ah !  .  .  .  yes,  we  saw  the  light.  I  even  went  and 
peeped  in  at  the  window.  .  .  .  One  never  can  tell.  .  .  . 
But  one  soon  knows  when  it's  all  right." 

" That's  well!     Now,  have  you  new  milk  for  four?  " 

"  At  your  service." 

"  And  a  piece  of  cheese?  " 

"At  your  service." 

Reymond  walks  carefully,  carrying  his  jug  of  milk  in 
both  hands.  How  cold  it  is  on  these  peaks!  The  air 
whips  one's  face.     One  breathes  ice. 

It  is  a  difficult  business  to  wake  people  who  are  sleeping 
on  hay  in  the  middle  of  the  night.  If  you  shake  them, 
they  roll  over.  If  you  call  them,  they  groan.  If  you 
pull  them  by  the  feet,  they  kick.  If  you  tickle  them, 
they  laugh  and  go  to  sleep  again.  Reymond  has  an  idea. 
He  will  play  them  the  reveille  of  the  mountains  as  a 
change  from  that  of  the  barracks.  He  intones  the  Ranz 
des  Vaches  in  a  loud  voice.     Old,  plaintive,  and  artless 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  255 

song  of  the  shepherds,  with  something  eternal  as  the 
mountains  in  it.  The  sleepers  open  their  eyes,  stretch 
and  yawn. 

"What?     What?     Ah!  yes!" 

"  I  dreamt  of  my  Colonel." 

"  I  dreamt  I  was  dancing  with  shooting  stars." 

"  I  dreamt  I  was  flying  round  the  sun  in  an  aeroplane." 

"  Come,  boys,  get  up,  get  up !  Here  are  milk  and 
bread  and  cheese.     Set  to  work." 

"  Monsieur,  when  did  you  get  all  this  ready?  " 

" That's  my  secret.     Fall  to!  " 

They  eat  and  drink. 

"  It's  not  milk,  it's  cream," 

"How  good  this  bread  is!   .  .  .  And  this  cheese !   .  .  ." 

"After  this,  those  who  love  me  will  follow  me  to  the 
spring,  three  minutes  from  here." 

"  Splendid !  Ice-cold  water.  .  .  .  We'll  bathe  to  our 
waists.     It  is  so  refreshing." 

The  hovairon,  a  boy  of  fourteen,  has  had  the  same  idea; 
in  the  grey  light  of  early  morning  he  shows  his  square 
torso,  his  muscular  arms,  his  broad  hands,  whereas  the 
gentlemen  from  the  town  reveal  fine  skins  and  slender 
torsoes. 

"  Come  along!  The  pool  is  big  enough  for  us  all. 
Soap  yourselves  well." 

The  little  herd  is  lathering  his  head  and  hands  method- 
ically. They  imitate  him.  The  water  is  not  clouded. 
It  is  so  clear.  There  is  so  much  of  it.  It  bubbles  and 
ripples,  reflecting  the  vigorous  young  figures,  the  laugh- 


256  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

ing  mouths,  and  the  little  herd  whom  it  knows  well.  An 
eddy:  Jean's  refined  face;  an  eddy:  Charles's  resolute 
face;  an  eddy:  Rene's  grimace;  an  eddy:  Professor  Rey- 
mond.  And  the  water  runs  on,  carrying  away  these 
images. 

Charles  and  Rene  eye  each  other. 

"  Show  me  your  biceps." 

"Let  us  wrestle." 

Their  youth  makes  them  radiant  and  provocative. 
They  touch  each  other,  grasp  each  other,  waltz  on  the 
short  grass,  roll  on  the  ground,  growling  and  slapping. 

The  cow-shed  opens.  The  cows  and  calves  come  out, 
slowly  and  doubtfully,  blowing  through  their  nostrils. 
The  bearded  giant  stands  on  the  threshold  of  the  low 
door,  his  cap  on  the  back  of  his  head. 

"  Are  you  satisfied  with  your  bovairon?  "  asked  Rey- 
mond. 

"Oh,  he  is  my  own  boy!  It's  his  first  season  in  the 
mountains.  Yes,  he's  shaping  well,  only  that  he's  afraid 
of  the  bull  ever  since  he  was  tossed  over  a  wall." 

"  I  don't  wonder.  .  .  .  Do  you  belong  to  these  parts? 

"  Yes,  to  the  village  just  below  us." 

"And  what  do  you  think  of  the  assassination  of  the 
heir  to  the  Austrian  throne?  " 

"  The  assassination  of  the  heir  to  the  Austrian 
throne?"  replied  the  man  calmly.  "What!  have  they 
killed  another  of  them?  No;  we  don't  know  anything 
about  it.  We  live  with  the  cows.  No  doubt  they  will 
be  able  to  find  another  heir.     It's  a  good  job." 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  257 

"  There  is  even  some  talk  of  war." 

"  Of  war  ?  "  The  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 
"Bah!" 

"And  why  not?  "  asked  Jean. 

"  The  Germans  are  all  eager  for  it,"  said  Rene. 

"And  where  do  you  gentlemen  come  from?  " 

"  From  Alsace." 

"  From  Alsace?  .  .  .  They  say  the  Germans  grip  them 
pretty  close  down  there.  .  .  .  War,  war!  It  may  be  so, 
after  all.  I  judge  all  these  things  after  the  animals. 
When  they  have  enough  to  eat  in  their  mangers,  they 
don't  attack  the  others.  But  when  one  of  them  is  hun- 
gry! .  .  .  Still,  the  Germans  have  enough  to  eat.  So 
they  have  killed  a  Prince?  ...  A  relation  of  William's? 
...  A  rich  man  then?  Yes,  it  may  turn  out  badly.  As 
far  as  general  tranquillity  is  concerned,  it's  better  to  kill 
a  poor  man  than  a  rich  one.  The  poor  man  is  forgot- 
ten. The  rich  man  has  to  be  avenged.  .  .  .  War!  .  .  . 
However,  it  will  take  some  time  to  climb  up  here." 

Turning  his  back,  the  herd  went  to  his  boiler. 

A  green  sky.  .  .  .  Below,  night  is  still  struggling  with 
dawn.  A  mortal  cold  lays  hold  of  one.  Everything  is 
livid,  everything  is  wet.  Set  in  a  gash  in  a  gloomy  gorge, 
there  is  a  piece  of  plain  barred  with  a  yellow  streak,  the 
Rhone.  The  grasses  are  quivering.  A  shudder  of  sus- 
pense. The  peaks  loom  corpse-like  and  sinister  in  their 
winding  sheets  of  snow.  The  highest  is  suddenly 
crowned  by  a  diamond  that  increases  in  size;  presently  it 
becomes  a  tiara  of  light.     Dawn.    A  red  streak  on  the 


258  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

horizon.  The  sinister  peaks  take  on  the  colour  of  blood, 
the  livid  ones  warm  themselves  and  laugh  gaily.  Some 
jagged  crests  which  remain  in  the  shade  sulk,  in  ugly 
greyness,  with  battlements  that  look  like  open  claws. 
Night  takes  refuge  in  the  hollows  of  the  precipices,  slips 
along  the  flanks  of  the  rocks,  glides  into  the  crevices  of 
the  gorges,  where  it  crouches  like  an  evil  beast.  And  up 
above  there  is  a  jubilation  of  resuscitated  colours,  peaks 
seated  in  a  circle  to  adore  the  sun,  fleeting  rays,  arrows 
which  pierce  the  slopes,  fly  from  a  stone  spire  to  a  tower 
of  snow,  and  fall  into  the  void,  where  the  death-agony 
of  night  comes  to  an  end.  .  .  .  The  grasses  raise  them- 
selves, and  become  inviting;  innumerable  eyes  open 
among  them:  the  hot  eyes  of  arnica,  the  blue  eyes  of  gen- 
tian, drops  from  the  sky,  flowers  whose  name  one  does 
not  know,  but  which  have  the  perfume  of  Paradise. 
Hunted  and  pursued,  the  shadows  seek  shelter  under  an 
overhanging  wall,  where  the  water  which  is  oozing  out 
forms  little  lakes,  black  as  the  devil. 

Everywhere  now  through  space  the  rays  of  light  are 
thrown  in  ladders.  Why  cannot  one  glide  from  peak  to 
peak  on  these  slender  threads?  Intoxicated  by  the  joy  of 
the  morning,  by  the  rejuvenescence  of  the  mountain,  the 
boys  run  hither  and  thither,  giving  free  rein  to  their 
wonder;  they  dabble  in  the  spring  that  gushes  out  between 
two  stones.  Created  by  the  sun,  this  spring  sets  to  work 
at  its  task,  which  is  to  caress  white  and  blue  pebbles. 
They  bend  down,  they  gather  colours  and  perfumes;  they 
pursue  insects  which  come  out,  they  know  not  whence, 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  259 

and  dance  like  mad  creatures,  scattering  the  tense  notes 
of  their  wings  on  every  side.  The  travellers  enter  into 
the  rhythm  of  things.  They  are  no  longer  men,  the  in- 
habitants of  a  house,  the  citizens  of  a  country;  they  are 
a  nameless  parcel  of  life  mirroring  itself  in  the  joy  of 
existence;  they  are  eternal  and  benevolent  like  the  sky, 
like  the  sunbeams,  like  the  laughter  of  the  stream;  they 
stretch  out  their  hands  and  touch  the  goodness  of  God. 

"  I  should  like  to  live  a  thousand  years,"  says  a  voice. 

Says  another:  "Suppose  we  never  go  down  again  to 
the  plain?  " 

Detached  from  an  abrupt  declivity,  an  avalanche  sud- 
denly rolls  its  dusty  waves  past  them.  It  grinds  the  firs 
which  bar  its  passage,  carries  trunks  and  boulders  along 
pell-mell,  kneads  them  in  its  mass,  bounds,  leaps  to  the 
bottom  of  the  abyss,  whence  there  rises  a  formidable 
roar,  the  echo  of  which,  reverberating  for  a  long  time, 
dominates  all  sounds,  and  prolongs  itself  in  the  lament 
of  the  torrent. 

Gay  quips  are  bandied  on  the  sanded  tennis-courts. 
Peace  has  endured  so  long!  .  .  .  People  yawn,  and  back- 
bite, and  speculate.  There  are  more  foolish  virgins  than 
wise  ones.  Gathered  round  the  hotel  tables,  what 
swarms  of  people  from  every  part  of  the  world  —  people 
with  white  skins,  yellow  skins,  grey  skins,  all  Europe,  all 
America!  The  dust  of  motor-cars  rises  in  clouds  on  the 
roads.  The  smoke  of  factories  lies  over  the  towns.  .  .  . 
People  work  and  amuse  themselves.     They  make  a  great 


260  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

deal  of  money.  In  the  midst  of  lassitude  and  luxury,  the 
beast  sometimes  shows  his  claws.  He  draws  them  in 
again.  .  .  .  Timid  people  say  behind  their  closed  shutters 
that  the  world  is  living  too  fast,  that  it  makes  one  giddy  to 
see  it.  Here  and  there,  under  attic  roofs,  philosophers 
write  terrible  things,  at  which  others  laugh.  Is  not  the 
word  modern  a  remedy  for  all  evils?  Can  there  be  any- 
thing wrong  with  what  is  modern?  So  wis  say:  modern 
style,  modern  women,  modern  religion,  modern  ideas, 
modern  smartness,  modern  comfort. 

Masses  of  doctors  are  attending  masses  of  neurasthen- 
ics. Clinics  and  nursing  homes  flourish.  Hair-dressers 
buy  castles.  Washerwomen  to  whom  Countesses  say 
"Pardon  me,  Madame,"  reply:  "What  do  you  want?  " 
And  advertisements  show  red  devils  brandishing  bottles 
on  a  black  background. 

Meanwhile  the  spiders  are  spinning  their  webs  on  the 
European  ceiling.  The  excited  flies  dance  wildly.  These 
spiders  are  bloated.  Their  affairs  are  prospering.  They 
have  devoured  a  good  number  of  giddy  insects;  they 
would  like  to  devour  more.  New  threads  are  woven 
round  the  dance  of  the  flies,  round  that  gay  dance  in  the 
sunshine. 

War! 

War  let  loose  upon  countries  but  yesterday  buzzing 
with  song  and  music.  Drums,  tocsins,  bugles.  Men  are 
hastening.  Women  are  weeping.  A  deadly  suspense 
hangs  on  the  horizon.  .  .  .  And  guns  are  rolling,  rifles 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  261 

clatter,  bayonets  gleam,  trains  bear  their  load  of  young 
flesh  to  the  frontiers.  And  the  women  linger  long  on  the 
platforms  of  the  stations,  holding  children  in  their  arms. 

They  have  gone.  Flags  float  over  the  deserted  gardens. 
The  clouds  have  black  wings.  The  nights  are  silent. 
But  no,  it  is  not  possible;  they  will  not  kill  each  other! 
They  want  to  try  their  strength,  to  frighten  their  oppo- 
nents. Words,  phrases,  nothing  irrevocable.  There  are 
the  Socialists,  the  Pacifists,  those  who  pray  to  God,  and 
God  Himself. 

An  August  morning:  blood  everywhere.  Millions  of 
men  are  advancing  to  avenge  the  dead.  The  Prussian 
eagle  has  planted  his  claws  in  the  heart  of  Belgium. 
Conflagrations,  the  shrieks  of  those  who  are  being  shot. 
And  the  crows  are  flying  in  flocks  from  the  woods  where 
they  nest.  Of  what  are  the  dead  of  Wissembourg  think- 
ing? 

When,  in  common  with  many  thousands  of  his  country- 
men, Reymond  keeps  guard  over  his  little  country,  whose 
hillsides  are  white  with  the  ripening  corn,  he  asks  himself 
anxiously  what  is  happening  to  his  friends  in  Alsace. 
Once  more  blood  is  being  poured  out  like  water  on  this 
soil  of  suffering.  During  the  long  night-watches,  only  a 
few  paces  from  the  frontiers  of  Alsace,  the  sentry  seems 
to  hear  again  the  quiet  breathing  of  the  young  men  sleep- 
ing in  the  hay  on  the  mountain.  Where  are  they  at 
this  moment?  Are  they  lying  wounded,  crying  out  their 
agony  to  the  stars?     Is  the  drama  of  war  complicated  for 


262  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

some  of  them  by  a  terrible  drama  of  conscience?  .  .  . 
The  lament  which  Suzanne  Weiss  used  to  sing  sometimes 
to  her  piano  assails  Reymond's  memory: 

"  Tree,  what  seest  thou  from  the  peak^  of  the  Vosges? 
...  I  see  horsemen  on  the  blue  plain.  The  sun  rises  all 
stained  with  blood;  it  sinks  all  stained  with  blood. 

"Tree,  what  seest  thou  from  the  peaks  of  the  Vosges? 
...  I  see  the  dark  armies  coming  to  battle  under  a 
heavy  cloud.  They  come  from  the  east  and  from  the 
west.  .  .  . 

"  Tree,  what  seest  thou  from  the  peaks  of  the  Vosges? 
The  enemy  is  dragging  my  children  along  with  him.  .  .  . 
Hamlets,  spires,  and  harvests  are  no  more,  and  my  last 
son  is  dying  against  my  trunk." 


XIII 

From  Rene  Bohler  to  Reymond 

X 

August  25. 

OH!  that  advance!  The  dream  come  true  at  last!  I 
had  explained  the  meaning  of  Alsace  to  my  men.  I 
felt  them  thrilling  in  response.  One  of  them  said: 
"We've  got  to  deliver  the  Lieutenant's  home  from  the 
Boches ;  it's  simple  enough.  On  we  go !  "  On  they  went, 
and  how  gallantly!  Under  the  fiery  sky,  marching  in 
the  open  country  through  the  corn  where  the  grasshoppers 
were  chirping,  war  seemed  a  magnificent  adventure. 
Flowers  everywhere!  Our  flag  blossoming  in  every  field! 
We  went  along  singing,  white  with  dust,  our  tunics 
unbuttoned,  our  caps  on  the  backs  of  our  heads.  And 
when  I  looked  round  I  saw  the  eyes  of  my  men,  brilliant 
eyes,  shining  with  joy.  .  .  .  War!  We  did  not  want  it, 
we  did  not  seek  it.  Not  content  with  stealing  Alsace- 
Lorraine  from  us,  they  have  been  harassing  us  for  forty- 
four  years!  A  dozen  times  we  gave  in,  we  abased  our- 
selves to  keep  the  peace.  Half  of  the  Congo  has  just 
been  given  up  to  them.  What  then?  Now  they  want 
Belgium,  Luxemburg,  Nancy,  and  Paris.  Good!  We 
have  clear  consciences.  The  man  who  is  warned  is  worth 
a  dozen  taken  by  surprise:  we  must  beat  them  or  be 

263 


264  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

crushed  ourselves.  'Tis  well.  They  wanted  war.  We 
are  going  gladly  to  meet  them. 

A  halt.  The  soup  is  cooked.  The  smoke  of  bivouac 
fires  rises  behind  the  hedges.  Stretched  out  on  the  grass, 
the  soldier  forgets  hunger,  thirst,  and  aching  feet.  War ! 
There  is  a  glitter  of  helmets.  Our  dragoon-patrols.  Not 
an  enemy  in  sight!  Where  are  they,  then?  This  cloud- 
less sky,  these  ears  of  waving  corn  irritate  us.  It  is  all 
too  calm.  Then  our  hearts  beat  with  a  sudden  anxiety. 
No  doubt  they  are  waiting  for  us  on  the  edge  of  that 
wood  we  see  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  yonder  ...  in  Alsace, 
.  .  .  The  men  light  cigarette  after  cigarette.  They  joke. 
They  tickle  each  other  with  blades  of  grass.  One  of  them 
has  fallen  asleep,  his  head  on  his  pack,  his  mouth  open, 
his  eyes  glassy.  A  voice  cries:  "  I  say,  Lardemont  is 
dead!  .  .  ." 

They  laugh.  They  soon  wake  Lardemont  by  throwing 
clods  of  earth  at  him.  They  don't  like  to  see  him  sleep- 
ing like  that. 

"All  who  have  photographs  of  their  young  'uns  had 
better  have  a  look  at  them  now !  "  says  a  wag.  "  We 
can't  be  sure  that  the  hinges  of  our  eyes  will  be  in  work- 
ing order  tomorrow." 

They  look  at  each  other.  The  wag  chants  in  a  cafe 
concert  voice:  "  Melanie  .  .  .  when  I  see  thee,  bending 
over  the  periwinkle  flower.  .  .  ." 

Up!  We  are  off!  The  packs  are  a  bit  heavy.  And 
always  in  front  of  us  we  see  those  helmets  passing  along 
the  houses,  disappearing,  gleaming  like  stars  on  the  hil- 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  265 

lock  where  we  watch  them.  We  are  going  to  make  war 
gallantly.     We  show  ourselves. 

The  frontier  is  only  five  hundred  metres  ahead.  I  see 
the  boundary-stone,  the  post.  That  village,  the  smoke 
which  rises  in  spirals  above  the  roofs  as  if  nothing  were 
happening,  are  in  Alsace.  The  dragoons  are  there  al- 
ready. The  lucky  dogs!  One  of  them  —  I  see  him 
through  my  field-glasses  —  has  dismounted.  A  peasant 
is  standing  near  him,  an  Alsatian,  evidently,  who  is 
explaining,  stretching  his  arm  out  always  in  the  same 
direction;  he  is  pointing,  no  doubt,  because  the  dragoon 
cannot  understand  a  word  of  his  patois. 

Alsace!  I  cannot  describe  my  emotion.  You  would 
think  me  a  mystic,  a  visionary :  I  thought  my  heart  would 
burst!  At  every  step  I  repeated:  "Alsace!  Alsace!  " 
The  blood  surged  to  my  head.  I  saw  the  landscape  red. 
I  wanted  to  speak  to  my  men.  But  there  are  moments 
when  this  is  impossible.  .  .  .  Two  hundred  metres  more. 
.  .  .  A  ditch!  I  took  a  run,  meaning  to  jump  and  land 
beyond  the  boundary-stone.  Ugh!  ...  I  picked  myself 
up  and  limped  three  paces  .  .  .  then  I  fell.  The  men 
hurried  up.  "You  are  wounded.  Lieutenant.  But  no 
one  fired."  It  was  a  severe  sprain.  My  ankle  was  as 
big  as  my  knee  in  ten  minutes.  It  was  too  stupid.  I 
cried  with  rage;  I  tore  up  the  grass  near  me;  I  spat  upon 
the  clods.     But  no  more.     I  should  break  my  pen. 

So  now  I  have  been  in  hospital  at  C for  three 

weeks,  stretched  on  a  chaise-longue,  bored  to  death,  swear- 
ing in  Alsatian  and  in  French,  and  snarling  at  my  orderly. 


266  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

There  are  such  numbers  of  wounded.  ...  I  devour  the 
newspapers.  But  we  are  getting  on.  Or,  rather,  we 
shall  get  on.  Just  at  present  it's  awful.  They  have 
ten  machine-guns  to  our  one,  and  they  mow  us  down  like 
grass.  Those  who  have  escaped  from  the  German  army 
tell  us  fearful  things.  I  will  not  repeat  them.  I  do  not 
want  to  be  too  much  moved.  What  is  happening  in 
Lorraine  is  particularly  awful.  Jean  is  there  with  his 
regiment.     I  know  nothing  of  him.     May  God  keep  him! 

Where  are  the  Weisses?  .  .  .  Have  they  been  able 
to  pass  through  the  lines?  ...  In  Alsace,  just  as  in 
France,  no  one  believed  in  war.  The  Germans  told  them 
just  what  they  liked.  So  they  were  taken  by  surprise. 
What  tragedies  there  have  been!  How  many  are  at  this 
moment  hiding  in  the  woods,  hunted  down  by  German 
patrols!  Dozens  of  them  come  over  to  us  every  day. 
Brave  Alsace!  Charles  Weiss  must  be  somewhere  in 
Poland.  You  remember  how  he  used  to  say  to  us:  "  War 
will  be  declared  in  the  spring.  I  shall  have  time  to  make 
tracks."  Poor  fellow !  What  he  must  be  enduring  if  he 
is  still  alive!  Can  it  be  true  that  not  two  months  ago 
Weiss,  my  brother,  and  I  were  with  you  on  the  moun- 
tains? It  was  a  beautiful  time!  But  wasn't  it  an  hallu- 
cination? 

And  Friedensbach  is  French  again  —  the  whole  valley 
as  far  as  Thann.  Friedensbach  French!  My  parents, 
who  are  still  there,  tell  me  that  it  was  delirious,  indescrib- 
able. .  .  .  Doring  and  Kummel  made  off  like  hares. 
They  were  seen  clambering  with  all  their  belongings  into 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  267 

the  train  which  carried  off  the  officials,  and  which,  for 
once,  hehaved  like  an  express,  and  looking  out  of  the 
window  with  white,  scared  faces,  scrutinizing  the  hushes 
and  the  farmyards.  .  .  .  Friedensbach  without  Kummel! 
I  have  hopes  of  seeing  it  again  in  the  course  of  the  war. 
It  would  be  vastly  amusing. 

How  can  I  joke?  .  .  .  What  is  left  of  my  poor 
regiment?  How  many  of  my  friends,  and  of  my  men, 
who  are  my  friends  too,  will  come  back?  However, 
what  consoles  me  a  little  is  that  I  shall  be  with  them  in  a 
week,  ready  to  make  up  for  lost  time.  We  shall  win. 
We  must!  There  can  be  no  shadow  of  a  doubt.  If  the 
individual  perishes,  what  does  it  matter !  If  only  France 
is  victorious!  If  only  our  little  country  becomes  French 
again ! 

As  I  have  some  time  on  my  hands  now,  and  as  you  will 
hear  nothing  of  me  when  once  I  am  in  the  thick  of  it 
again,  I  am  going  to  copy  out  a  description  of  the  entry 
of  the  French  into  Mulhouse  from  the  field-diary  of  one 
of  my  comrades,  who  was  brought  into  hospital  here 
three  days  ago,  only  slightly  wounded.  What  I  would 
have  given  to  see  it  myself!  It  makes  me  furious  again 
to  think  of  it!  Steady!  This  fellow,  a  Second-Lieu- 
tenant like  myself,  is  a  calm,  thoughtful,  critical  chap. 
So  his  notes  have  a  real  documentary  value.  If  they 
were  written  by  an  Alsatian,  one  might  distrust  them  — 
enthusiasm  plays  tricks  with  the  eye  and  the  judgment  — 
but  this  Parisian  is  above  suspicion.  I  am  prouder  of 
my  Alsace  than  ever! 


268  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

What  is  happening  with  you  in  Switzerland?  ...  Be 
on  your  guard.  .  .  .  Belgium,  Luxemburg.  .  .  .  What 
next? 

Your  old  friend  and  pupil  greets  you  cordially. 
When  shall  I  write  to  you  again?  .  .  .  When  shall  we 
meet  again?  .  .  .  One  must  not  think.  One  must  act  at 
present.     I  long  to  begin. 

Your  Affectionate 
Rene  Bohler. 

Extract  from  a  Field-Diary. 

August  7. —  Sudden    orders   to    leave   X .     1.30. 

Fine  starry  night.  We  are  to  advance.  There  is  some 
excitement.  We  march  silently  along  the  frontier.  We 
arrive  at  the  entrance  to  a  forest.  "  Go  and  reconnoitre," 
says  the  captain  to  me;  he  presses  my  hand.  I  set  off 
at  the  head  of  a  patrol. 

The  frontier.  Glorious  moment!  I  order  arms  to  be 
presented  at  5.30  a.m.  We  advance  cautiously.  Not  a 
shot.  Only  one  of  the  men  calls  my  attention  to  a  rider- 
less horse  galloping  through  the  wood. 

The  first  Alsatian  village:  Y .     Cheerful  houses, 

flowers,  an  open  road.  Two  devout  old  ladies  come  out 
of  the  church,  and  make  off  hastily,  keeping  close  to  the 
walls,  without  looking  at  us.  The  priest  arrives  on  the 
scene.  He  comes  towards  me,  holding  out  his  hand. 
He  asks  for  help.  A  German  dragoon  is  dying  in  the 
church,  shot  in  the  stomach.     I  send  word  to  the  doctor 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  269 

in  the  rear.  At  the  end  of  the  village,  I  call  a  halt.  The 
men  pile  arms  and  wait. 

The  peasants  show  themselves,  gaining  confidence. 
The  first  who  comes  to  us  cannot  speak  French,  but  he 
brings  two  baskets  of  plums  and  distributes  them.  When 
I  offer  to  pay  he  laughs  and  refuses  the  money.  Then 
comes  an  entire  family,  with  bread,  wine,  and  butter. 
They  are  delighted  to  talk  French.  The  young  daughters 
pour  out  wine  for  the  men.  The  father,  a  well-to-do 
farmer,  offers  us  information  concerning  the  local  topog- 
raphy and  what  he  knows  of  the  German  movements. 

We  set  off  again.  This  time  every  one  is  out  on  the 
doorsteps.  They  salute  us,  but  without  speaking.  A 
peasant  woman  crosses  herself  and  says  to  me,  as  I  pass: 
"  Take  care ;  they  are  so  cruel !  "  A  group  of  men  in  the 
market-place  applaud.  An  old  man  with  a  white  im- 
perial comes  and  stands  before  me  with  his  son,  gives 
a  military  salute,  and  cries :  "  Long  live  France !  "  The 
women  at  the  windows  clap  their  hands. 

Another  village.  Confidence  is  gaining  ground.  We 
feel  that  there  is  joy  in  the  hearts  of  all  those  who  come 
to  meet  us.  A  large  group  of  men,  young  and  old, 
await  us  at  the  entrance  of  the  village.  They  all  want 
to  shake  hands  with  me.  "Only  think!  "  says  one  of 
them.  "  You  are  the  first  French  officer  to  enter  Alsace." 
Another,  a  huge  fellow  wearing  a  blacksmith's  apron, 
cries:  "Bring  us  Forstner!  "  All  join  in  the  laugh. 
They  want  to  give  the  men  more  wine.  I  have  to  stop 
them. 


270  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

All  of  a  sudden  there  are  shots.  At  last;  it  is  almost  a 
relief  to  come  upon  them.     There  they  are,  crouching  in 

their  trenches,  in  front  of  Z .     The  first  whistle  of 

the  bullets.  Then  an  attack,  sudden  and  violent.  One 
does  not  know.  One  does  not  see.  And  presently  we 
find  ourselves  mixed  up  with  them  in  their  trenches. 
They  make  off,  leaving  four  dead,  the  first  I  have  seen. 

We  enter  the  village.  The  Colonel  orders  a  duly 
impressive  march  past.  The  inhabitants  show  themselves 
freely,  their  faces  beaming.  They  cannot  get  over  having 
seen  the  precipitate  flight  of  the  Prussians.  The  colours 
pass.  All  salute  them.  It  is  warm,  clear,  and  fine.  I 
am  dead  tired  and  full  of  glee.  It  is  truly  a  festival  here. 
I  am  billeted  on  a  worthy  fellow  who  fought  in  1870. 
"  It's  all  right  this  time,"  he  says.  He  wants  to  tell  me 
about  his  campaigns.  But  I  cannot  listen.  I  am  half- 
asleep  as  I  stand. 

A  night  of  alarms.  Firing  goes  on  unusually.  Is  it 
an  illusion?  .  .  .  Are  they  returning?  Anyhow,  I  can- 
not sleep.  My  host  is  greatly  distressed  that  I  should  not 
have  benefited  by  his  bed. 

August  8. —  A  calm  morning.  A  German  aeroplane 
pays  us  a  visit.  We  fire  at  it.  Where  are  our  machines? 
Are  we  not  the  masters  of  the  air?  ...  I  visit  my 
outposts.     What  a  beautiful  country! 

Luncheon  with  the  Captain  at  a  private  house.  The 
host  serves  us  with  enthusiasm.  His  eyes  are  fixed  upon 
us  with  a  sort  of  adoration.  But  he  can  only  speak 
German.     His  wife,  a  pretty  and  well-educated  Alsatian, 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  271 

knows  French,  fortunately.  She  has  been  to  a  boarding- 
school  at  Montelibeard,  and  is  proud  of  it.  "  Then,  it's 
all  over  now,"  she  says;  "we  shan't  see  them  again? 
We  shall  meet  at  Mulhouse  next  14th  of  July."  She 
brings  us  dainty  dishes  which  the  whole  family  has  been 
preparing  for  us.  "  It  will  be  better  this  evening.  We 
shall  have  had  more  time."  They  refuse  payment  of 
any  kind. 

A  sudden  order  to  attack.  The  inhabitants  distribute 
fruit  to  the  men.  In  the  wood  the  troops  are  in  fighting 
formation.  Hares  are  frolicking  about,  and  the  men  are 
amused.  I  cannot  perceive  any  emotion  among  them. 
The  country  is  beautiful,  the  inhabitants  are  amiable, 
it's  a  fine  adventure.     A  few  shots.     Silence.     When  we 

debouch  at  ,  the  Prussians  have  decamped  again. 

We  begin  to  think  this  strange.  We  learn  that  they  have 
evacuated  Alsace,  and  are  entrenched  behind  the  Rhine. 
Four  dragoons  come  in.  The  road  to  Mulhouse  is  clear. 
One  of  the  dragoons  is  so  excited  by  the  news  he  brings 
that  he  shouts  it  aloud  to  all  comers. 

We  advance  column  by  column,  quick  march.  It  is 
difficult  to  believe  we  are  marching  to  battle.  The  men 
are  singing  gaily.  Outside  all  the  houses  women  offer 
wine  and  children  give  or  scatter  flowers.  What  an 
extraordinary  progress ! 

We  enter  ,  one  of  the  working-class  quarters  of 

Mulhouse.  It  was  deeply  impressive.  An  enormous 
crowd,  ardent  and  enthusiastic,  was  ranged  upon  the 


272  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

pavements.  All  the  workmen  stood  bare-headed.  Many 
press  forward  to  shake  hands  with  me.  Cries  of  "  Long 
live  France!"  and  "Bravo!"  resound.  The  children 
sing  or  whistle  the  Marseillaise.  The  Captain,  hitherto 
so  impassible,  has  tears  in  his  eyes.  My  sergeant  says 
to  me :  "  To  think  we  are  in  the  enemy's  country !  "  And 
one  of  my  men,  deeply  moved,  declares:  "All  the  same. 
Lieutenant,  it's  worth  while  to  have  one's  head  broken 
for  such  people!  "  Now  the  band  plays  and  the  flag  is 
unfurled.  It  is  the  great  march  past  so  often  dreamt  of! 
I  think  of  many  famous  entries:  Milan,  the  triumphant 
returns,  and  the  dreams  of  the  vanquished  of  1870.  To 
be  present  at  such  a  realization  at  the  first  blow  is  too 
magnificent,  too  overwhelming!  We  halt  in  the  suburb, 
in  front  of  a  shop.  The  tradesman,  a  big  jovial  fellow, 
calls  my  men,  distributes  ham  and  sausages  among  them, 
and  refuses  all  payment.  But  he  demands  order  in  a 
stentorian  voice:  "Every  man  in  his  turn!  .  .  .  They 
shall  all  have  some."  And  he  cries  again :  "  This  is  to 
avenge  my  son,  who  is  with  the  Schwobs."  A  woman 
arrives,  her  arms  full  of  boxes  of  cigars  and  cigarettes, 
and  distributes  them  among  the  delighted  and  astonished 
men. 

We  were  billeted  in  a  working-class  quarter.  All  the 
inhabitants  rushed  out,  offering  wine  and  all  sorts  of 
things.  It  was  becoming  rather  too  strong.  I  had  to 
restrain  them.  But  a  young,  bright-eyed  girl  came  to  me, 
saying:  "You  must  let  us  give  things  to  your  men, 
Lieutenant.     We  have  been  waiting  for  you  for  so  long." 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  273 

Every  one  was  eager  to  put  us  up.  Our  hosts  said  with 
tears  in  their  eyes:  "It's  too  beautiful!  It's  like  a 
dream!  "  And  again,  in  the  course  of  the  meal,  the 
warning  was  repeated :  "  Take  care.  They  are  so  cruel !  " 
There  is  a  holiday  fever  in  the  billets,  in  spite  of  the 
silence  prescribed. 

August  9. —  Another  sudden  departure.  Two  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  We  pass  through  the  wakeful  town,  and 
find  the  houses  open  and  brightly  lighted.  We  are  going 
to  occupy  the  heights  overlooking  the  111.  The  artillery 
is  being  massed  behind  us.  The  General  assembles  the 
ofl&cers  and  explains  that  we  shall  probably  force  the 
forest  of  La  Hardt  and  march  on  the  Rhine.  What  a 
beginning ! 

It  is  Sunday.  The  bells  are  ringing.  The  Mulhousians 
in  their  holiday  dress  come  to  see  us.  We  talk  and 
laugh.  It  is  like  a  fine  Sunday  in  the  provinces,  or 
Longchamp  before  the  review.  And  bells  on  every  side, 
joy  in  every  heart. 

Five  o'clock.  Departure.  The  whole  brigade  is  to 
march  towards  the  north.  The  Germans  are  coming 
back.  We  are  to  move  rapidly.  One  division  is  already 
engaged.  It  must  be  supported.  The  roar  of  cannon 
is  heard.  This  time  it  is  really  battle.  We  pass  through 
a  village,  and  then  through  Mulhouse,  faster  and  faster. 
The  inhabitants  are  greatly  agitated.  There  are  people 
on  every  doorstep,  and  all  are  anxious  to  give  wine  to  the 
soldiers.  Young  girls  run  along  beside  the  columns  to 
empty  the  bottles  they  have  in  their  hands.     There  are 


274  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

many  anxious  faces,  especially  among  the  women.  And 
the  same  words  are  repeated  on  every  hand :  "  Courage ! 
Confidence!  Take  care!  Bravo!  "  and  there  is  the  same 
eagerness  to  press  the  hands  of  the  officers. 

A  house  near  the  station  is  already  riddled  with  frag- 
ments of  shell.  We  are  going  through  Mulhouse.  In 
the  Rue  de  Colmar  people  are  hurrying  into  their  houses. 
The  artillery  cuts  across  us,  galloping  towards  the  east. 
All  of  a  sudden  a  good  fellow,  running  up  to  me,  pushes 
me  on  to  the  pavement:  "  Look  out!  Take  care!  There 
they  are!  "  I  have  scarcely  had  time  to  understand 
when,  as  I  emerge  upon  a  bridge,  I  am  greeted  by  bullets. 
The  Captain,  cold  and  elegant,  advances  firmly.  We 
follow  him.  The  fire  becomes  hotter.  The  Captain, 
calm  as  ever,  crosses  the  street  without  bending  his  head, 
looking  for  an  opening.  At  last  he  finds  a  court,  and 
signs  to  us.  We  hurry  into  it,  and  breathe  for  a  moment. 
But  the  Captain  sends  me  with  my  section  to  meet  the 
enemy.  I  find  myself  in  front  of  a  wide  expanse  of 
waste  ground,  between  two  houses.  I  see  the  Germans; 
I  hear  their  words  of  command.  My  men,  full  of  self- 
confidence,  fire  steadily,  with  no  trace  of  panic. 

Day  is  dying,  and  night  is  upon  us.  It  is  very  fine. 
The  sky  is  thickly  sprinkled  with  stars.  The  melancholy 
bugles  of  the  Prussians  are  sounding  signals,  the  mystery 
of  which  weighs  on  our  hearts,  in  spite  of  ourselves.  Are 
they  going  to  charge?  It  is  already  very  dark,  when  a 
good  woman  comes  down  from  the  neighbouring  house. 
Lying  on  the  ground,  she  calls  one  of  the  men,  and  hands 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  275 

him  a  bucket  of  coffee.  Then  the  fire  slackens.  But  on 
the  east  the  cannonade  and  rifle-fire  are  terrific.  Great 
flames  shoot  up  in  the  distance;  one  hears  a  tremendous 
clamour.  Poor  creatures,  loaded  with  packages,  come 
running  towards  us.  They  have  been  driven  out  of  their 
houses  by  the  Germans.  They  weep.  We  try  to  comfort 
them.  We  have  almost  ceased  firing.  The  men  are 
joking  to  pass  the  time. 

Two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  I  am  going  to  make  a 
reconnaissance  towards  the  railway-station,  whence  they 
were  firing  on  us.  I  arrive  at  the  gates  without  hearing 
a  shot.  I  climb  over  them.  Nothing,  absolute  silence. 
Behind,  the  road  stretches  away,  white  and  empty.  Is 
it  all  over? 

August  10. —  Noise  on  the  road,  carts  and  voices.  Are 
they  reinforcements?  I  go  towards  the  road  to  find  out, 
and  am  fired  at.  I  hurry  back  to  my  men.  We  wait 
anxiously. 

Day  is  breaking.  Suddenly  there  is  a  shout:  "Who 
goes  there?  "  The  reply  is  a  terrific  volley  from  ma- 
chine-guns, in  front  of  us,  to  the  right,  to  the  left.  Bul- 
lets scream  and  twist  over  our  heads.  The  plaster  of  the 
surrounding  houses  crumbles,  the  windows  are  shattered. 
It  is  impossible  to  fire.  We  do  not  know  where  the 
volley  comes  from.  I  do  not  know  where  my  company 
is.  Suddenly  a  brisk  fire  breaks  out  on  our  left.  Have 
we  been  turned?  I  order  the  men  to  fall  back.  By 
leaps  and  bounds,  under  the  bullets,  we  reach  the  canal. 
It  is  impossible  to  pass.     We  are  under  fire  from  every 


276  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

side.  At  last  I  find  an  opening,  a  narrow  alley,  and 
discover  my  battalion  huddled  in  a  network  of  streets. 
The  people  in  the  houses  are  looking  at  us.  They  bring 
out  hot  wine  to  us.     Ah!  the  good  creatures! 

The  Major  sees  me  and  comes  towards  me.  "  It's 
all  up  with  us!  "  he  says.  The  Captain  adds:  "  I  believe 
we  are  surrounded,  but  we  must  wait  till  it  is  lighter." 
Shells  are  now  sweeping  the  street  into  which  the  narrow 
alley  where  we  are  crouching  debouches.  How  are  we 
to  get  out?  Creeping  against  the  walls,  we  defile  in 
good  order.  From  time  to  time  a  shell  whirls  over  our 
heads,  doing  no  damage. 

Now  we  are  out  on  the  banks  of  the  111.  It  is  an 
exquisite  morning.  We  see  no  one.  We  climb  the 
slopes  of  the  111  and  march,  famished  and  exhausted, 
but  not  in  disorder.  At  last  we  halt  in  a  village,  after 
marching  for  miles.  .  .  .  How  blessed  to  rest!  We 
go  into  billets.  The  inhabitants  welcome  us  as  before. 
Have  they  heard  the  news  or  not?  They  see,  of  course, 
that  we  are  retreating,  but  they  show  no  sign  of  distrust 
or  fear.  We  can  breathe  quietly,  and  the  night  passes 
without  any  alarms. 

"  We're  still  at  home  in  Alsace,  sir,"  says  my  sergeant. 

From  Victor  Weiss, 

Friedensbach, 

October  30,  1914. 

Dear  Friend, 

How  many  things  have  happened  in  three  months ! 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  277 

I  ought  to  have  written  before  in  answer  to  your  kind 
letter,  but  we  have  been  having  a  terrible  time.  .  .  . 
Strange  that  we  did  not  believe  war  was  coming.  We 
were  too  near  the  powder-magazine  to  know  what  was 
going  on  inside.  Up  to  the  very  last  day  our  masters 
fed  us  on  false  news;  war  was  already  declared  when  they 
were  telling  us  that  everything  would  be  arranged.  We 
learned  the  truth  only  when  the  first  shots  were  fired 
from  the  summits  of  the  Vosges.  An  hour  afterwards 
Francois,  who  was  working  at  his  thesis  for  his  doctor's 
degree  with  us,  had  gone  to  the  forest.  We  spent  some 
hours  of  mortal  anxiety.  How  many  of  our  poor  Alsa- 
tians have  been  shot  down  like  dogs  as  they  were  gliding 
along  from  tree  to  tree  towards  the  frontier! 

One  morning  about  seven  o'clock  shots  were  heard 
close  at  hand.  Our  masters  made  off  in  all  haste  —  po- 
licemen, Customs  officers,  officials  of  every  kind,  Doring, 
and  Kummel,  bareheaded,  his  red  hair  bristling  on  his 
Pan-German  skull,  dressed,  in  his  agitation,  in  a  dressing- 
gown,  and  clasping  the  bust  of  the  Emperor  in  his  arms. 
.  .  .  We  have  not  seen  him  since.  Shortly  afterwards 
we  heard  the  hurried  tramp  of  the  Chasseurs  Alpins  in 
our  street.  Then,  how  did  it  happen?  I  don't  know. 
In  a  minute  all  the  flowers  in  the  gardens  were  gathered: 
they  fell  in  showers  from  the  windows  on  to  the  blue  caps; 
in  a  minute,  the  tricoloured  flags  appeared.  I  could  not 
have  believed  that  there  were  so  many  in  Friedensbach : 
faded,  crumpled,  ragged,  time-worn  as  they  were,  they 
shook   out  gaily   in   the   August   sunshine.     Near   me, 


278  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

leaning  out  of  the  same  window,  was  my  father.  Eighty- 
five  years  old!  Like  all  the  rest  of  us,  he  was  weeping 
silently.  Looking  up  at  that  venerable  head,  the  officers 
saluted  with  their  swords.  .  .  .  The  flag  was  dipped.  .  .  . 
It  is  impossible  to  describe  such  things. 

A  month  later  my  beloved  and  honoured  father  died 
quietly  in  his  arm-chair.  Since  that  march  past  of  the 
Chasseurs  Alpins  in  our  Friedensbach  street,  he  had 
never  spoken.  He  was  already  gone.  What  more  had 
he  to  wait  for  in  life?  We  wrapped  him  in  the  historic 
flag.  At  the  grave  there  was  a  section  of  the  Alpins, 
the  band,  the  Major  of  the  battalion:  "  I  bow  before  this 
witness  of  Alsatian  suffering."  My  gallant  father!  It 
was  the  faith  of  these  men  which  prepared  the  days 
through  which  we  are  now  living. 

And  whom  did  we  see  one  morning  standing  at  the 
garden-gate  but  Frangois  in  the  uniform  of  a  foot 
Chasseur.  He  had  been  three  days  in  the  forest,  hunted 
by  Customs  officers  and  rangers.  .  .  .  He  was  arrested 
by  the  French  as  a  spy,  and  imprisoned.  There  was  an 
enquiry.  Now  he  is  a  corporal.  The  most  unlikely 
things  seem  natural  in  these  days.  One  adapts  oneself. 
One  accepts.  If  the  moon  came  down  to  earth  it  would 
hardly  astonish  us. 

And  now  I  must  tell  you  of  our  sorrow.  And  it  is 
because  of  this  that  I  have  delayed  writing  to  you  so 
long,  hoping  every  day  to  hear  that  our  Charles  is  a 
prisoner  in  Russia.  This  would  mean  that  two  months 
later  he  would  be  a  French  soldier!     Alas!  this  news  has 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  279 

not  come  to  us.  Two  postcards,  six  lines,  told  us  that 
he  was  in  East  Prussia,  and  then  in  Poland.  .  .  .  We 
can  imagine  what  is  going  on  in  the  heart  of  this  boy.  I 
am  still  waiting  confidently.  Vigorous,  intelligent,  with 
a  will  of  iron,  our  Charles  will  find  his  hour.  It  will 
come.  It  has  perhaps  already  come.  But  how  far  away 
Russia  is!  .  .  .  Think  of  us.  I  believe  in  telepathy. 
Send  out  sympathetic  fluids  to  us,  more  and  ever  more. 
My  wife  worries  terribly.  She  sends  her  remembrances 
to  you,  and  so  does  our  little  Marie,  our  consolation  in  all 
these  trials,  the  only  one  of  our  children  left  to  us;  for 
Suzanne  is  a  nurse  at  Besangon,  where  she  is  devoting 
herself  heart  and  soul  to  the  wounded.  Ah!  why  to  the 
devil  am  I  sixty -three  years  old? 

Defend  Switzerland  well  if  she  is  attacked.  I  press 
your  hand  in  the  Alsatian  fashion,  which  means  that  I 
almost  crush  it. 

Your  Friend, 

Victor  Weiss. 

From  Jean  Bohler, 

X , 

May  10,  1915. 
Dear  Master  and  Friend, 

I  have  scarcely  written  to  you.  Only  a  few  words 
on  postcards.  I  am  like  that;  it  costs  me  more  of  an 
effort  to  seize  a  pen  than  to  go  into  battle.  It  is  an 
indolence  of  the  mind  that  I  find  it  very  hard  to  over- 
come. I  think,  too,  that  I  have  seen  too  much.  Things 
that  cannot  be  told.     If  I  am  going  to  try  today,  it  is  be- 


280  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

cause  you  and  your  people  ought  to  know  what  sort  of  a 
war  they  have  imposed  on  us. 

First  of  all  I  must  explain  why  I  have  leisure  to  write. 
I  have  two  bullets,  one  in  my  leg,  one  in  my  shoulder. 
They  are  nursing  and  coddling  me,  and  operating  on  me 
too.  I  am  beginning  to  get  up.  And  I  am  so  fat  and 
rosy  that  within  five  or  six  weeks  I  shall  rejoin  my  battery, 
where  my  Captain  is  anxiously  awaiting  the  return  of 
his  Second-Lieutenant  —  for  I  have  been  a  Second- 
Lieutenant  since  January.  I  have  good  news  from  home. 
At  the  end  of  every  letter  there  are  the  words  Courage, 
my  son.  Father  writes  courage;  mother,  my  son.  With 
that  in  my  pocket-book  and  my  heart  I  would  go  to  the 
end  of  the  world,  and  at  any  rate  to  the  end  of  Alsace. 
Dear  country!  The  part  of  it  we  have  retaken  is  being 
furiously  bombarded  by  the  Kummels.  How  many 
villages  are  now  nothing  but  heaps  of  stones !  Friedens- 
bach,  which  our  troops  took  in  the  early  days  of  the  war, 
has  fared  better.  From  time  to  time,  however,  Kummel 
sends  a  greeting  across  the  mountain,  more  or  less  hap- 
hazard. On  New  Year's  Eve,  the  shoemaker  Herzog 
and  his  apprentice  were  killed  in  their  workshop,  and  in 
February  a  woman  and  her  two  children !  .  .  .  War ! 

There  is  good  news  from  Rene.  He  is  fighting  in 
Alsace.  You  will  not  be  surprised  to  hear  that  he  has 
already  been  twice  mentioned  in  dispatches.  I  am  proud 
of  my  younger  brother. 

Have  you  heard  that  Emile  Zumbach  fell  at  the  wood 
of  La   Grurie?     His   "escape"   from  Alsace   was   an 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  281 

extraordinary  business.  Always  modest  and  taciturn, 
he  fought  with  a  bravery  and  contempt  of  death  that 
won  him  the  military  medal.  And  he  was  shot  through 
the  heart  in  an  attack,  just  ten  paces  from  the  German 
trench.  Gallant  friend!  The  first  of  our  little  band  to 
go!     Who  will  be  the  next? 

And  Andre  Berger,  of  whom  Rene  said  that  night  on 
the  mountain :  "  He  disgusts  me ;  when  he  talks  you 
would  think  his  mouth  was  full  of  powdered  sugar  " — 
Berger,  so  cold,  so  distant,  so  provoking,  has  splendid 
reports,  as  one  who  is  always  ready  for  a  tough  job. 
Bravo ! 

I  have  little  or  no  news  of  the  poor  Weisses.  Frangois 
is  fighting  with  us.  As  to  Charles,  who  was  surprised  by 
the  declaration  of  war  on  the  confines  of  Russia,  and 
closely  watched,  no  doubt  he  was  in  the  hurly-burly  from 
the  very  first.  You  know  him.  You  realize  how  he 
must  have  suffered.  There  has  been  no  word  of  him  for 
a  long  time.  What  has  happened  to  him?  I  dare  not 
think  of  it,  and  I  will  say  no  more,  for  fear  of  saying  too 
much. 

Truly,  war  is  a  more  ignoble  business  than  anything 
that  could  be  imagined.  Ignoble  is  a  euphemism.  No 
words  can  express  it.  Alsace's  greatness  in  the  eyes  of 
history  will  lie  in  the  fact  that  she  consented  to  suffer 
rather  than  provoke  war.  Now  I  understand  my  father's 
answer  to  the  stranger  who  asked  him:  "  Do  you  wish  for 
revenge  {la  revanche)  ?  "  "  We  feel  we  have  no  right," 
he  replied,  "  to  send  millions  and  millions  of  men  to  theii: 


282  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

death  in  order  to  put  an  end  to  the  injustice  of  which  we 
are  the  victims.  We  will  never  cease  to  bear  witness  to 
the  violence  done  to  us,  to  protest  against  it  in  the  name 
of  human  dignity  and  as  a  conscientious  duty.  But  that 
very  conscience  forbids  us  to  desire  the  butchery  which 
would  deliver  us.  If  we  stand  fast,  what  should  be  will 
be.  I  believe  in  the  eflScacy  of  suffering."  I  remember 
that  I  felt  indignant  at  the  time.  How  could  I  under- 
stand at  the  age  of  eighteen?  My  father  had  seen  and 
had  made  war. 

And  now  it  is  my  turn.  And  I  say  again  that  war  is 
worse  than  ignoble.  The  day  after  a  battle!  The 
ground  strewn  with  debris,  dying  horses  rolling  in  their 
own  entrails,  shell-holes  half  full  of  water,  and  in  them 
wide-eyed  corpses  already  livid  and  stinking  under  the 
sun  or  the  rain.  It's  horrible!  It's  hideous!  I  have 
vomited  at  the  sight. 

We  must  draw  our  strength  from  this  ugliness  of  war. 
The  filthier  it  is,  the  greater  is  the  crime  of  those  who 
planned  it,  who  let  it  loose  at  their  own  hour,  and  decreed 
that  it  should  be  atrocious,  savage,  without  quarter, 
stained  with  every  crime,  in  the  hope  that  our  hearts 
would  fail  us  and  that  we  should  fall  on  our  knees.  The 
foul  deeds  by  which  they  hoped  to  subdue  us  have 
revealed  our  duty  to  us.  It  is  very  simple.  We  must 
put  an  end  to  war.  We  must  harry  those  who  have  made 
it  a  national  industry.  And  that  is  why  the  most  ardent 
anti-militarists  are  fighting  like  lions.  An  awful  task 
is  laid  upon  us.     But  we  know   (and  we  Alsatians  by 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  283 

experience)  what  the  sufferings  of  the  world  would  be  if 
we  did  not  accomplish  it.     It  may  count  upon  us. 

It  was  on  the  25th  of  August,  1914,  that  I  first  realized 
the  sort  of  enemy  we  have  to  deal  with.  That  evening  we 
were  fighting  in  Lorraine,  thirty  kilometres  from  Metz. 
From  the  place  where  our  battery  lay  we  could  see  the 
time  on  the  clock-tower  of  Mars-la-Tour.  Alas!  it  w,as 
not  yet  the  hour  of  deliverance !  Our  soldiers  held  their 
ground  with  a  demoniacal  recklessness,  which  was  en- 
hanced by  the  attraction  of  that  beloved  soil  we  hoped  to 
free.  We  fought  from  dawn  to  sunset.  In  the  evening 
the  battlefield  lay  before  us  with  all  its  horrors,  its 
ghastly  sights.  I  shall  remember  the  spectacle  as  long 
as  I  live.  It  was  about  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening.  The 
country  rose  and  fell  in  undulations  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach.  On  every  side  were  the  dead  and  wounded 
abandoned  by  the  Germans.  A  lowering  sky,  a  red  globe 
very  low  on  the  horizon,  gave  a  sinister  aspect  to  fields 
and  woods  and  hills.  We  marched  forward  silently  in 
the  fading  light  in  the  midst  of  corpses,  wounded,  and 
dying  men,  imploring  our  pity:  Durst  .  ,  .  trinken 
(Thirst  .  .  .  drink).  A  German  whose  right  cheek  was 
hanging  loose  like  a  red  rag,  murmured:  Arzt  .  .  .  ein 
Arzt  (A  doctor).  But  the  words,  passing  through  the 
gaping  hole  in  his  face  came  to  us  in  a  vague  sound,  so 
transformed  that  only  the  profound  pity  we  felt  for  the 
miserable  man  enabled  us  to  understand  them.  In  the 
midst  of  all  the  death-rattles,  the  screams  of  the  dying, 
we  heard  in  the  distance  a  strident,  horrible  whistle, 


284  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

rending  the  heavy  air,  and  rising  above  the  concert  of 
groans.  It  was  no  doubt  some  wounded  man  who  was 
spending  all  his  remaining  strength  in  an  appeal  for 
help  which  never  came. 

Of  course,  we  picked  up  all  the  German  wounded  we 
could  take,  and  put  them  on  our  waggons.  We  formed 
our  park  towards  midnight  in  the  darkness,  near  a  village 
where  there  had  been  furious  fighting  during  the  day. 
The  next  morning  at  dawn  we  gathered  up  brains, 
distorted  limbs,  and  skulls  already  rotting,  between  the 
legs  of  our  horses  and  our  guns.  We  had  unknowingly 
bivouacked  on  a  spot  where  the  struggle  had  been  par- 
ticularly fierce. 

But  another  spectacle  of  horror  lay  before  us.  Passing 
through  the  village  which  the  Germans  had  held  till  the 
night  before  (Rouvres,  between  Etain  and  Metz),  we 
found  a  heap  of  corpses  of  women  and  young  girls.  One 
of  them  still  clasped  in  her  blood-stained  arms  a  baby 
whose  little  body  was  riddled  with  bayonet  wounds.  We 
wept  with  rage  and  grief.  In  this  same  village  we  were 
told  that  a  man  who  had  been  dragged  away  by  the 
soldiers  was  just  about  to  be  shot  against  a  wall  when  his 
daughter,  a  charming  little  fair-haired  creature  of  seven- 
teen —  I  saw  her  corpse  —  threw  herself  on  her  knees  be- 
fore the  officers,  begging  for  her  father's  life.  They  re- 
pulsed her  brutally.  They  made  her  witness  his  execu- 
tion. Shortly  afterwards,  her  mutilated  body  was  thrown 
on  to  the  heap  of  female  corpses  at  the  entrance  to  the 
village.     Into  what  a  hell  we  have  gone  down! 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  285 

All  this  was  only  a  beginning.  Since  then  I  have  seen 
such  horrors  that  I  sometimes  wonder  whether  they  are 
possible,  or  whether  I  am  the  prey  of  terrible  hallucina- 
tions. What  is  death  compared  to  the  life  we  should 
lead  if  we  were  beaten  ?  I  assure  you  one  needs  more 
courage  to  offer  a  moral  resistance  to  the  sight  of  all 
these  horrible  and  atrocious  things  than  to  face  an 
avalanche  of  high  explosives  and  10.5  shells.  But  fear 
nothing.  Ask  yourself  no  questions.  We  shall  not  be 
beaten.  This  will  not  go  on.  They  will  fall.  The 
weight  of  their  crimes  will  drag  them  down  into  the  abyss. 

We  have  already  gone  through  many  dark  hours. 
Well,  never,  even  when  we  were  utterly  exhausted,  drunk 
with  fatigue,  did  we  despair. 

I  was  at  Senlis  on  the  2nd  of  September.  My  division 
had  orders  to  protect  the  left  wing  of  our  army.  We 
maintained  contact  with  the  enemy.  At  Saint-Chamant, 
and  then  on  the  high  road  from  Senlis  to  Meaux,  we  ex- 
hausted our  ammunition  fighting  against  an  enemy  three 
times  superior  to  us  in  numbers.  How  many  comrades 
I  left  there,  officer  friends  and  gallant  troopers  who  died 
with  such  simplicity  beside  us!  Just  one  last  look  which 
means  "  Stand  fast!  "  and  then  the  other  world. 

We  were  retreating  slowly  under  an  incessant  hail  of 
bullets.  On  the  evening  of  the  2nd  of  September,  when 
we  passed  through  Senlis  again,  shells  were  already  rain- 
ing upon  it,  pursuing  us  without  intermission.  You  can- 
not imagine  what  our  feelings  were  as  we  marched  once 
more  through  the  town  where  the  population  had  made 


286  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

festival  in  our  honour  two  days  before.  They  had  re- 
ceived us  as  their  saviours,  throwing  flowers  to  us.  And 
these  strangers,  who  knew  what  awaited  them,  who  knew 
the  enemy  was  only  three  kilometres  away,  and  were  al- 
ready getting  their  first  shells,  still  encouraged  us.  The 
women  smiled,  and  the  old  men  pressed  our  hands. 

After  this  came  the  strenuous  days  of  the  Marne;  I 
was  at  Barcy,  Marcilly,  Strepilly,  Ay-en-Multien.  Then 
there  were  the  battles  on  the  Aisne,  the  march  towards 
the  sea,  Lassigny  and  Roye.  Then  five  months  in  mud 
up  to  our  necks,  between  the  waters  of  earth  and  sky, 
dragging  with  us  our  75's,  which  are  like  our  children. 
We  are  still  confident.  Our  soldiers  are  splendid.  Yet 
there  are  hours  when  the  human  machine  gets  out  of  gear, 
when  the  springs  are  relaxed.  Then  I  think  of  Alsace. 
I  look  back  to  the  hill  of  Wissembourg.  I  remember  my 
vow.  I  probe  the  depths  of  my  being,  and  I  find  a 
peaceful  heart,  an  unfaltering  will. 

Sometimes  I  close  my  eyes  the  better  to  see  the  faces 
of  those  who  have  fallen  beside  me.  It  is  really  difiicult 
to  distinguish  myself  from  them,  for  at  the  front  the 
barrier  between  living  and  dead  is  so  slight.  .  .  .  And 
now,  more  fortunate  than  many  mutilated  companions, 
I  am  waiting  at  the  hospital  for  orders  to  return.  I  hope 
to  arrive  before  the  great  offensive.  This  phrase  of  my 
Captain's  will  go  with  me:  "Let  us  do  a  gallant  duty 
gallantly." 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  287 

From  Jean  Bohler. 

June  20,  1915. 

I  am  off  on  Saturday.  I  don't  say  that  I  go  with  joy  — 
such  a  word  would  be  offensive  —  but  certainly  I  shall  go 
calmly,  glad  to  rejoin  my  comrades  in  that  furnace  where 
the  life  of  man  is  but  as  straw.  We  must  make  an  end 
of  those  who  have  attempted  to  murder  Europe.  It  may 
seem  strange  to  you,  but  I  have  no  hatred  in  my  heart. 
Indeed,  one  very  rarely  hears  a  violent  word  from  the  lips 
of  soldiers  —  I  mean  of  those  who  have  been  at  the  front. 
The  methods  of  our  enemies  disgust  and  revolt  us: 
burning  men  alive  by  means  of  Flammenwerfer,  suffo- 
cating them  by  gases.  .  .  .  Yet  we  respect  the  combatant 
who  offers  his  life  as  we  offer  ours.  What  we  want  to 
overthrow  is  a  system  which  perverts  the  moral  sense. 
A  wounded  man  in  the  bed  next  to  mine  expressed  him- 
self this  morning  as  follows:  "They  are  sick  ...  we 
must  cure  them."  ^ 

I  read  everything  relating  to  Switzerland  with  the 
greatest  interest.  Like  us,  like  all  the  countries  in  the 
world,  you  have  been  encircled,  cajoled,  fettered  eco- 
nomically. It  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that  many 
should  have  been  bound  by  their  interests,  and  that 
others  —  so  skilfully  have  facts  been  perverted  —  have 
been  unable  to  believe  in  the  enormity  of  the  crimes  com- 
mitted. The  recently  naturalized  tradesmen  and  jour- 
nalists have  done  their  best  to  trouble  the  waters.  True, 
all  of  us  in  France  looked  for  unanimous  indignation  on 
the  part  of  neutrals,  after  the  violation  of  Belgium  and 


288  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

Luxemburg  and  the  innumerable  atrocities  that  were 
committed.  Little  Switzerland,  neutral  out  of  the  re- 
spect due  to  treaties,  protesting  in  the  sight  of  the  world 
against  those  who  by  violating  treaties  make  all  inter- 
national relations  impossible!  What  a  lesson  it  would 
have  been!  .  .  .  What  authority  it  would  have  given  you, 
with  what  respect  you  would  have  been  surrounded! 

But  enough  of  this.  These  matters  do  not  concern 
me.  It  is  your  business  to  thresh  them  out  among  your- 
selves. On  the  other  hand,  what  you  tell  me  about  your 
comrades  in  the  regiment,  and  about  your  people,  the 
real  Swiss  people,  fills  me  with  joy.  They  know,  above 
all  they  feel  that  our  cause  is  theirs,  that  our  defeat 
would  be  that  of  liberty,  that  the  bird  of  prey  must  be 
struck  down.  Our  wounded  repatriated  from  Germany 
tell  us  of  their  journey  through  your  country,  of  the 
crowds  at  the  stations  from  Schaffhausen  to  Geneva  in  the 
middle  of  the  night,  of  things  which  bring  tears  to  one's 
eyes.  The  words  your  authorities  have  not  said  have 
been  cried  aloud  by  your  people.  They  throw  their 
whole  hearts  into  the  carriages  of  our  wounded,  together 
with  their  flowers  and  letters  and  parcels.  You  cannot 
imagine  how  these  spontaneous  manifestations  strengthen 
us. 

I  can  assure  you  that  our  soldiers  deserve  this  sympa- 
thy. I  have  seen  hundreds  of  them  die.  Their  deaths 
have  not  been  at  all  like  those  described  in  well-meaning 
feuilletons,  deaths  embellished  by  a  theatrical  gesture. 
A  grandiloquent  cry,  a  sublime  apostrophe  to  the  enemy. 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  289 

They  have  done  what  they  could.  They  have  offered 
their  lives.  The  hour  has  come  to  give  them.  They  close 
their  eyes;  they  suffer  in  silence  or  they  moan;  they  die. 
No  sight  could  be  more  sublime.  And  nearly  all  these 
men  have  wives  and  children,  and  love  life.  Yet  they 
have  agreed  to  the  sacrifice.  They  well  know  why. 
Would  it  be  worth  while  to  live  in  slavery? 

I  can  assure  you  that  our  soldiers  understand.  What 
do  they  all  say?  — "  We  are  fighting  that  our  children 
may  never  know  anything  of  this  beastliness.  We  shall 
have  to  pay  the  price,  but  it  will  never  happen  again." 
You  would  look  in  vain  for  a  Kummel  among  us.  They 
accomplish  the  most  extraordinary  things.  It  seems 
quite  simple  to  them.  And  one  never  hears  a  word  of 
pride  or  exaggeration  from  them.  If  you  question  those 
who  have  decorations,  nine  times  out  of  ten  you  will  get 
this  answer:  "I  only  did  my  duty  like  all  the  other 
chaps."  I  declare  that  I,  in  my  turn,  do  not  exaggerate 
when  I  say  that  in  their  quasi-unanimity  our  soldiers  are 
magnificent.  There  is  a  mighty  force  in  them.  They 
know  that  they  are  in  the  right.  Above  all,  you  must 
not  believe  that  the  Germans  are  our  equals  in  moral 
strength.  They  are  formidable  adversaries,  it  is  true. 
They  have  plenty  of  pluck.  But  they  fight  like  Germans, 
whereas  our  soldiers  fight  like  Frenchmen  and  like  men. 
Theirs  is  a  different  kind  of  strength.  And  that  is  why 
we  go  back  to  the  front,  where  death  lies  in  wait,  as  one 
returns  to  life.  For  us  it  is  there.  There  is  no  paradox 
in  what  I  am  writing  to  you. 


290  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

There  is  only  one  thing  that  grieves  me  more  than  I 
can  say.  Too  many  of  our  men,  so  brave  that  one  feels 
inclined  to  kneel  to  them,  do  not  understand  Alsace  nor 
the  Alsatians.  I  excuse  them,  but  it  often  hurts  me  to 
hear  the  things  they  say.  I  excuse  them,  because  these 
soldiers,  who  come  from  the  Correze,  Brittany,  the  Gard 
or  the  Drome,  know  nothing  of  our  little  country.  They 
exclaim  in  their  first  stupefaction :  "  But  they  talk  Ger- 
man! "  After  what  has  passed,  it  seems,  indeed,  impos- 
sible to  them  that  French  sentiments  should  be  translated 
into  German  patois. 

It  would  not  have  been  possible  that  there  should  have 
been  no  defections  in  Alsace.  We  should  have  been 
more  than  human  had  this  been  the  case.  But  do  they 
count?  Do  our  soldiers  know  what  we  have  suffered? 
Do  they  realize  what  it  means  to  have  had  the  weight  of  a 
whole  army  of  officials  working  to  extirpate  the  very 
roots  of  memory  for  forty-four  years?  Do  they  know 
that  five  hundred  thousand  Alsatians  have  given  up 
everything  to  remain  French,  that  as  many  Germans 
have  taken  their  places,  and  that  these  Germans  call  them- 
selves Alsatians?  Do  they  know  what  it  is  to  struggle 
for  nearly  half  a  century  against  one's  manifest  interest 
with  a  population  of  a  million  and  a  half  against  sixty-five 
millions?  .  .  .  No.  Only  those  who  have  done  it  can 
know. 

I  believe  Rene  sent  you  the  field-diary  of  one  of  his 
comrades,  describing  the  entry  of  the  French  into  Mul- 
house.     That  was  the  cry  of  Alsace,  the  cry  of  her,  uttered 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  291 

under  extraordinary  conditions.  Is  it  generally  known 
that  in  our  country  there  are  spies  everywhere,  observing, 
noting,  and  denouncing?  That  the  Alsatians  call  the 
prisons  to  which  they  are  sent  in  crowds  the  Hotel  de 
France?  That  the  German  courts-martial  have  already 
condemned  those  who  allowed  their  French  sympathies 
to  be  known  to  terms  of  imprisonment  amounting  in  the 
aggregate  to  three  thousand  years?  And  that  more  than 
one  Alsatian  has  already  paid  for  his  fidelity  to  France 
with  his  life? 

Civilians  fired  on  us  in  Alsace,  say  some  of  our  sol- 
diers. No  doubt.  But  wjio  were  they?  Do  our  soldiers 
know  that  the  German  rangers  had  orders  to  put  on  civil- 
ian clothes  as  soon  as  war  was  declared,  to  go  to  the 
Kommando  for  ammunition,  and  to  take  to  the  forest? 

This  misunderstanding  will  pass  away.  It  is  already 
passing.  If  our  enemies  hoped  to  embroil  us  with 
France,  it  was  because  they  know  neither  the  French  nor 
the  Alsatians.  Everything  will  come  right  in  time.  The 
drama  of  our  lives  will  be  known  in  all  its  details.  Then 
the  chaff  will  be  separated  from  the  grain.  All  that  is 
needed  is  to  explain,  to  explain  oneself. 

I  assure  you  that  there  is  not  a  man  in  my  battery  who 
does  not  know  now  what  Alsace  is.  On  a  certain  day 
one  of  them  had  made  an  offensive  remark.  Seeing  my 
distress,  the  Captain  gave  me  orders  to  assemble  my 
gunners,  and  to  speak  to  them  of  my  province.  I  de- 
scribed the  hour  we  spent  at  Wissembourg.  All  had  tears 
in  their  eyes.     The  offending  gunner  came  to  me,  blush- 


292  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

ing,  and  said :  "  Lieutenant,  there  is  no  greater  fool  than 
he  who  speaks  without  knowing.  You  must  forgive  me. 
I'll  wipe  that  out."  Ah!  he  did  wipe  it  out,  my  gallant 
Martin!  I  saw  him  die  a  mile  or  two  from  the  frontier 
of  the  annexed  province.  His  eyes  were  fixed  on  mine. 
He  said  nothing,  I  said  nothing  —  it  was  during  a  spell 
of  hurricane  fire  —  but  I  understood. 

When  shall  I  write  to  you  again?  .  .  .  Even  if  I  do 
not  answer  your  letters,  do  not  forget  me.  A  friend's 
letters  are  a  talisman.  Let  your  thoughts  follow  me.  I 
am  constantly  seeing  in  a  dream,  or  rather  in  a  nightmare, 
the  corpses  of  women  and  children  heaped  up  before  one 
of  the  burning  houses  of  Rouvres.  In  my  waking  hours 
I  think  of  the  innocent  dead  in  Belgium,  in  Armenia,  in 
Serbia,  in  Poland,  in  my  own  Alsace,  and  in  my  France, 
and  I  am  all  eagerness  to  return  to  the  atrocious  conflict, 
out  of  which  we  have  sworn,  a  less  hideous  humanity 
shall  emerge.     Farewell. 

Yours, 

Jean  Bohler. 

From  Rene  Bohler. 

July  1,  1915. 
Dear  Monsieur  Reymond, 

Only  a  word.  Here  I  am  on  one  of  the  Vosges 
peaks;  I  may  not  tell  you  exactly  where.  But  I  can 
distinctly  see  through  my  field-glasses  my  parents'  house, 
and  the  window  of  the  schoolroom.  Sometimes  I  see 
something    moving    in    the    garden.     I    say    something. 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  293 

because  it  is  very  vague.  But  I  think  to  myself:  "It's 
Father.  It's  Mother.  .  .  ."  And  the  Boches  only  fifty 
kilometres  off!  Truly  there  is  something  magnificent 
about  this  war  for  us  even  when  we  die  of  it.  Are  we  not 
doing  our  duty?  If  you  could  have  seen  what  we  have 
seen!  I  tell  you  this  war  is  a  crusade.  Before  us  lies 
the  plain  of  Alsace,  with  the  ruins  of  Cernay,  of  Wat- 
wilier,  of  Uffholz,  and  in  the  distance  the  smoke  of  Mul- 
house,  and  the  bend  of  the  Rhine.  .  .  .  The  claws  of  the 
Boche  are  still  deeply  embedded  here.  .  .  .  Where  is 
Kummel  lurking?  May  Providence  bring  us  face  to 
face  again  some  day !  We  have  so  many  things  to  say  to 
each  other! 

Your  friend, 

Rene  Bohler. 

From  Victor  Weiss. 

Friedensbach, 
September  15,  1915. 

Dear  Friend, 

We  are  in  terrible  trouble.  Frangois  has  been 
severely  wounded  on  the  Champagne  front.  His  left 
leg  was  shattered  and  has  been  taken  off  above  the  knee. 
The  poor  fellow  writes  us  such  beautiful  letters  that  we 
scarcely  dare  to  pity  him.  He  will  come  back  to  us  — 
mutilated,  it  is  true,  but  still,  he  will  come  back  to  us. 

Frangois  a  cripple!  But  this  is  not  the  worst.  It  is 
now  a  year  since  we  have  had  a  word  from  Charles.  We 
have  moved  heaven  and  earth  without  getting  any  sign 
of  life  from  him.     It  is  horrible.  ...  I  reproach  myself 


294  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

bitterly.  I  say  that  when  we  were  in  Switzerland  we 
should  have  stayed  there  and  should  not  have  returned 
to  Alsace.  But  when  one  lives  with  the  knife  at  one's 
throat,  one  ceases  to  distinguish  the  red  hours  from  the 
grey  ones.  Too  late!  .  .  .  One  evening  we  saw  the 
abject  Kummel  in  great  excitement,  flags  were  unfurled, 
guns  and  waggons  rolled  along,  and  men  defiled,  singing 
their  Lie}/  Vaterland,  magst  ruhig  sein  at  the  top  of  their 
voices.  War!  Too  late!  Our  Charles  was  already  in 
the  trap ! 

He  must  have  thought  of  everything,  dared  everything, 
to  get  to  the  Russian  lines.  Day  by  day  we  shared  the 
horror  he  must  have  felt  at  fighting  in  the  ranks  of  those 
who  were  persecuting  his  country;  we  were  consumed  by 
his  sufferings;  we  strengthened  his  efforts  by  the  thoughts 
we  sent  out  to  him.  ...  At  night  we  wake  with  a  start. 
It  is  like  a  dagger  in  our  hearts:  Charles,  stolen  by  the 
Germans.  Our  little  Marie  is  always  saying:  "Charles 
will  come  back."  But  we  can  no  longer  believe  it.  A 
year  of  silence!  His  poor  mother!  Anything  would  be 
better  than  these  desperate  hopes,  these  letters  which 
fall  into  the  void  one  after  the  other. 

And  now  I  come  to  the  point  of  these  few  words.  I 
have  written  to  all  the  societies  and  all  the  officers  in 
your  country  which  undertake  researches  and  identifica- 
tion among  prisoners  of  war.  You  will  find  herewith  all 
the  available  information  about  Charles'  enrolment  and 
the  places  to  which  the  chances  of  war  took  him,  as  far 
as  we  know.     Would  you  do  us  the  kindness  of  going  in 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  295 

person  to  the  various  agencies  and  enlisting  the  sympathy 
of  the  directors  in  our  grief,  so  that  a  supreme  effort 
may  be  made.  I  ask  it  for  the  sake  of  our  boy  —  I  know 
that  you  loved  him  —  for  his  mother's  sake,  for  mine. 
We  will  await  your  answer  as  patiently  as  we  can. 
We  send  you  our  most  affectionate  greetings. 

V.  Weiss. 

Reymond  set  to  work  without  delay.  He  had  inter- 
views with  kindly  men,  a  little  weary  already  of  all  the 
tragic  things  that  had  been  brought  before  them  for 
months.  He  went  to  Geneva.  He  returned  there.  They 
wrote  letters.  They  wrote  again  and  again.  At  last, 
after  waiting  two  months,  a  very  polite  old  man  seated 
at  a  writing-table  covered  with  papers  spoke  as  fol- 
lows: 

"  Charles  Weiss?  .  .  .  We  have  gone  through  the 
lists  of  those  who  have  died  in  Germany,  and  of  the 
prisoners  of  war  in  Russia.  .  .  .  Nearly  all  the  officers 
of  the  regiment  in  question  have  been  killed  or  have 
disappeared.  .  .  .  The  new  ones  can  give  no  information. 
.  .  .  The  snow,  the  cold,  the  mud,  the  inundations.  .  .  . 
The  papers  are  at  your  service.  You  will  see  that  we 
have  tried  everything.  .  .  .  You  say  the  young  man  was 
an  Alsatian?     He  has  disappeared,  like  so  many  others." 

"  Disappeared?  "  repeated  Reymond.  "  Do  you  mean 
dead?  " 

The  old  man  shrugged  his  shoulders  very  gently. 
"Ah!  ..." 


296  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

Reymond  went  away.  It  was  a  mild  day  in  late  Octo- 
ber. The  lake  rippled  between  the  stones  of  the  quay. 
The  red-and-green  parasols  twinkled  gaily  on  the  decks 
of  the  steamers;  people  were  walking  about  and  laugh- 
ing; young  couples  were  sitting  on  the  benches  of  the 
promenades. 

He  had  disappeared,  the  frank,  merry  boy.  After  all 
the  long  silence,  this  supreme  silence  of  mystery.  In 
that  Poland,  a  martyr  like  himself,  in  some  hastily  dug 
hole,  lay  the  body  of  this  son  of  Alsace.  .  .  . 

From  Victor  Weiss. 

Friedensbach, 
November  18,  1915. 

Dear  Friend, 

It  is  now  just  a  year  and  two  months  since  we 
heard  from  Charles.  Probably  we  shall  never  learn 
anything  more  about  him.  Do  not  raise  false  hopes  in 
us.  .  .  .  We  have  heard  from  a  trustworthy  source  that 
the  regiment  of  our  gallant  son  was  literally  destroyed 
at  Lodz,  and  that  his  company  was  annihilated.  The 
Russians  may  have  shot  him  down  when  he  was  crawling 
towards  them  as  to  his  saviours.  Our  Charles,  so  frank, 
so  loyal !     What  he  must  have  suffered ! 

The  peace  of  the  grave  is  grateful  to  those  who  have  to 
bear  such  mortal  tortures!  There  are  times  when  his 
mother  and  I  have  a  terrible  sense  of  consolation.  .  .  . 
He  has  ceased  to  suffer.  On  the  other  hand,  I  sometimes 
walk  in  our  forests  looking  about  everywhere,  as  if  he 
were  hidden  in  the  hollow  of  some  ditch.     I  call  him  in 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  297 

my  thoughts.  The  guns  make  answer:  the  German  guns 
that  threaten  us,  the  French  guns  that  defend  us.  I 
come  home  overwhelmed. 

Bohler  often  comes  to  see  me.  He  has  good  news  of 
his  boys. 

There  is  grief  and  misery  all  around  us.  When  the 
Germans  retired,  they  carried  off  nearly  all  our  men. 
They,  too,  were  dragged  to  Poland.  Jacob  Schmoler,  a 
boy  barely  seventeen,  though  he  was  big  and  strong,  was 
of  the  number.  The  shock  was  too  much  for  old 
Schmoler.     He  has  rejoined  Jacobine. 

My  poor  wife  makes  my  heart  ache.  She  spends  her 
days  gazing  at  the  photographs  of  our  Charles  and  our 
Jacques.  To  think  that  two  of  our  sons  have  died  in  the 
German  army  so  that  France  may  be  free!  ...  It  is  so 
senseless!  You  who  have  lived  among  us  will  under- 
stand, you  will  reverence  these  martyrs  to  the  cause. 
We  cannot  weep  for  them  as  we  should.  We  are  too  much 
embittered,  too  overwrought,  too  indignant.  Three 
sons!  .  .  .  One  is  left,  and  he  is  mutilated.  How  we 
shall  love  him!  But  no  joy  will  ever  be  able  to  still  the 
weeping  of  our  hearts. 

Elsewhere,  fathers  and  mothers  know  that  their  chil- 
dren died  gladly.  In  Alsace,  the  death  of  our  dear 
ones  has  been  an  agony:  they  have  been  shot  by  brutes 
or  killed  by  the  bullets  of  those  whose  victory  they  de- 
sired. When  all  is  known!  .  .  .  The  men  of  Wissem- 
bourg  have  many  friends  now. 

In  our  misery  we  have  one  consolation:  our  boy  did 


298  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

not  acquiesce  in  a  lie.     Deaths  like  his  are  not  fruitless. 
They  have  the  value  and  the  weight  of  a  curse. 

Your  unhappy 
Victor  Weiss. 

FTom  Henri  Bohler, 

Friedensbach, 

January  7,  1916. 

Dear  Friend, 

Your  letter  moved  us  to  tears.  We  recognized  in 
it  all  the  affection  you  bore  our  beloved  ones,  an  affection 
they  returned  in  full  measure. 

At  the  first  moment  we  had  not  the  courage  to  write 
to  you.  You  must  forgive  us  if  the  newspapers  were 
beforehand  with  us.  It  all  happened  in  one  week.  .  .  . 
On  the  Monday  news  came  of  the  death  of  Rene,  who  was 
killed  by  a  bullet  through  his  forehead  before  Carspach. 
He  fell  face  forward,  before  that  Alsace  to  which  he  had 
long  devoted  his  life.  My  wife  and  I  had  the  sad  con- 
solation of  seeing  him  once  more.  He  was  so  beautiful, 
a  smile  on  his  face.  He  sleeps  with  hundreds  of  others 
in  the  churchyard  of  Moosch  which  you  so  often  passed 
by  with  your  pupils  in  former  times. 

On  the  Saturday  of  the  same  week,  we  heard  of  the 
death  of  Jean,  who  was  killed  with  six  of  his  men  in  the 
Argonne  by  a  high-explosive  shell.  For  some  time  past 
his  letters  had  alarmed  us.  They  were  too  beautiful, 
worthy  of  those  whom  death  has  chosen.  .  .  .  Jean, 
Rene.  .  .  .  Our  sorrow  is  too  great.  We  suffer  all  that 
a  father  and  a  mother  can  humanly  suffer.     Pity  us.  .  .  . 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  299 

Our  two  boys!  .  .  .  The  Weisses  came  to  us  at  once. 
We  mingled  our  tears. 

For  us,  life  is  over.  Yet  for  their  sakes  we  try  not  to 
give  way,  and  we  repeat  the  words  which  Jean  wrote  in 
his  last  letter :  "  What  does  death  matter  when  one  is  in 
the  right?  "  Write  to  us  often.  Talk  to  us  of  them, 
only  of  them. 

Until  the  war  is  over,  we  have  too  many  duties  at 
Friedensbach  to  allow  us  to  go  to  Switzerland.  Could 
you  come  to  us,  I  would  facilitate  your  journey  as  much 
as  possible.  You  would  read  us  our  boys'  letters,  you 
would  tell  us  what  they  used  to  say  to  you  in  former 
days,  and  recall  that  night  on  the  mountain  of  which  they 
had  retained  such  radiant  memories.  It  will  be  sweet 
and  cruel  to  speak  of  those  who  have  left  us,  of  those  we 
have  given  to  France,  and  so  to  the  most  humane  of 
causes. 

Meanwhile  if  you  can,  pray  for  us. 

My  wife  joins  me  in  affectionate  remembrances. 

Henri  Bohler. 


XIV 


June,  1916. 

FROM  Bassang  the  motor  runs  snorting  along  the  road 
which  climbs  up  the  slope  of  the  Vosges.  It  passes 
heavy  lorries,  hay-waggons,  troopers;  it  overtakes  gangs 
of  road-makers  and  battalions  resting  between  their 
stacked  rifles.  .  .  .  Suddenly  the  road  dives  into  a  tunnel. 
.  .  .  There  is  a  glimmer  which  increases,  then  a  light 
...  it  is  Alsace,  her  blue  mountains,  her  valleys,  her 
villages  beside  the  sparkling  river.  ...  A  sound  as  of 
distant  thunder.  Yet  the  sky  is  clear,'  the  horizon  limpid. 
.  .  .  Reymond  bares  his  head.  He  greets  this  land  which 
he  loves  as  one  loves  one's  native  place. 

Is  he  dreaming?  ...  Is  this  thunder  the  echo  of  the 
interminable  battle?  .  .  .  Urbes,  Wesserling,  then  other 
villages,  and  in  all  Alsatian  boys  wearing  the  caps  of  the 
Chasseurs  Alpins,  the  red  kepi  of  the  foot  soldiers;  every- 
where soldiers  on  the  march,  the  supple,  lively  tread  of 
the  soldiers  of  France.  ...  Is  it  possible?  A  spire 
rises  above  the  trees,  a  red,  white,  and  blue  flag  floats 
from  the  roof  of  the  town-hall.  And  here  is  the  street  of 
Friedensbach,  its  stream,  its  gobbling  geese,  its  fountain 
with  the  three  jets,  its  roofs  where  the  dormer  windows 
are  blinking,  the  stork's  nest.  The  car  draws  up  to  let  a 
battalion   pass.     The   men   are   wearing   helmets;    they 

300 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  301 

carry  their  packs  on  their  backs,  and  on  these  packs  so 
many  things  that  one  sees  they  are  going  where  the  guns 
are  roaring.  It  is  an  impressive  sight :  the  swinging  rifles, 
the  eyes  which  have  seen  so  many  corpses,  the  ears  which 
have  heard  so  many  dying  groans,  the  tense  jaws,  the 
boots  that  hammer  the  pavement  with  all  their  nails. 

"  Where  are  they  going?  "  Reymond  asks  the  chauffeur. 

"  To  Vieil-Armand." 

Now  the  band  begins  to  play.  The  windows  of  the 
school  are  thrown  open;  fifty  little  faces  appear,  hands 
are  waved  in  greeting.  Instead  of  Kummel  there  is  a 
school-master  in  uniform  who  pinches  the  ears  of  laugh- 
ing boys.  There  is  a  bunch  of  flowers  on  his  desk,  and 
on  the  blackboard  the  following  copy  is  inscribed  in  white 
chalk:  One's  country  is  a  mother  who  has  thousands  of 
children.  .  .  . 

"  Wait  for  me  a  minute." 

Reymond  asks  himself  again  if  he  is  not  the  victim  of 
some  hallucination.  He  feels  the  need  of  speaking  to 
some  one,  of  hearing  a  familiar  voice.  There  is  the  door 
he  has  so  often  pushed  open  and  entered. 

"  Monsieur  Reymond!     You  have  come  back!  " 

"  Is  it  you,  Madame  Vogel?  " 

They  look  at  each  other.  The  fair-haired  widow  is 
dressed  in  mourning;  her  face  is  pale,  and  there  are 
wrinkles  at  the  corners  of  her  eyes.  She  says  in  her  slow 
voice : 

"Oh!  there  is  no  one  left.  Mother  is  dead,  father  is 
dead.  .  .  .  They  have  taken  Jacob  from  me." 


302  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

Reymond  was  much  moved.  What  should  he  be  able 
to  say  presently? 

He  went  back  to  the  chauffeur. 

"What  were  your  orders?  " 

"  To  take  you  and  your  luggage  to  Monsieur  Bohler's." 

"  All  right.  I  will  walk.  I  know  the  way.  As  to  the 
luggage,  leave  it  with  the  lodge-keeper." 

The  same  road.  The  level  crossing,  the  rocks  crowned 
with  broom.  The  cloud  of  dust  in  the  distance  is  raised 
by  the  advancing  battalion.  The  dull  thunder  of  the 
guns  has  ceased.  The  swallows  swoop  and  dart  over- 
head. 

What  shall  he  say  to  them?  He  tries.  He  seeks 
after  words.  No,  not  that.  .  .  .  The  bridge  over  the 
river.  And  now  the  whirr  of  the  machinery,  the  slap  of 
the  belts,  the  plaintive  murmur  that  used  to  accompany 
the  voices  that  were  translating  Horace  or  Plato.  Hold- 
ing his  cap  in  his  hand  as  he  used  to  do  of  yore,  Grob, 
the  lodge-keeper,  opens  the  little  side-gate.  There  is  the 
court,  the  house  with  its  glass  marquise.  The  old  servant 
comes  to  answer  the  bell.  At  the  sight  of  Reymond, 
she  wipes  her  eyes  with  her  apron  and  murmurs  some- 
thing. In  the  dimness  of  the  drawing-room,  the  shutters 
of  which  are  half  closed,  he  finds  Monsieur  and  Madame 
Bohler,  Monsieur  and  Madame  Weiss,  and  little  Marie 
clinging  to  her  mother.  There  is  a  moment's  silence. 
Monsieur  Bohler  advances,  very  calm,  then  Weiss.  Rey- 
mond understands  at  once  that  they  have  pledged  them- 
selves to  bear  their  sorrow  valiantly.     How  changed  they 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  303 

are!  how  they  have  aged!  how  thin  they  have  grown! 
Weiss's  sturdy  shoulders  are  bowed.  Reymond  does  not 
speak,  he  feels  his  throat  contract.  He  bows  before  the 
two  women  in  mourning  as  he  touches  their  cold  hands. 
They  sit  down  and  look  at  each  other.  With  Reymond, 
the  absent  ones  have  come  back,  those  sons  who  filled 
the  house  with  their  gaiety,  the  dead  they  have  so  often 
invoked  in  vain!  The  two  women  suddenly  hide  their 
faces  in  their  hands,  little  Marie  throws  her  arms  round 
her  mother;  they  lament  aloud.  Weiss  sobs;  Monsieur 
Bohler  stiffens  himself  stoically,  but  the  tears  roll  down 
his  cheeks.  It  is  too  pitiable!  Reymond  approaches 
the  two  men.  What  does  he  say?  He  does  not  know. 
He,  too,  sobs  aloud. 

It  is  good  to  weep  together,  to  give  way  without  shame, 
to  offer  tears  of  tenderness  and  gratitude  to  the  young 
dead  who  have  fallen  for  the  salvation  of  the  world,  to  go 
in  search  of  them  through  space  into  the  depths  of  silence, 
to  embrace  them,  to  commune  with  their  love,  to  feel  that 
they  still  live,  like  Justice. 

After  this  it  is  possible  to  speak.  All  that  was  bitter 
and  suffocating  has  been  washed  away;  grief  remains, 
grief  bathed  by  these  tears,  serene  and  worthy  of  those 
who  have  departed. 

"  Our  children  were  magnificent,"  said  Monsieur 
Bohler.  "  True  crusaders.  So  gay,  so  simple,  so  will- 
ing. We  are  right  to  weep  for  them,  the  emotion  of  our 
meeting  has  been  sweet  to  them,  but  it  is  even  more  right 
that  we  should  smile  at  them." 


304  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

"  They  were  so  brave,"  said  Weiss,  "  that  we  have  no 
right  to  be  cowards,  have  we,  wife?  " 

"No.  What  you  say  is  true.  When  I  look  at  their 
portraits,  I  find  no  sadness  in  them.  The  sadness  is  in 
me,  not  in  them." 

"They  gave  their  lives  unhesitatingly,"  said  Bohler. 
"Dear  boys!  They  never  caused  us  a  moment  of  grief. 
They  offered  pure  hearts  to  their  country." 

Memories  of  their  childhood  were  evoked.  Their 
sayings  were  quoted.  Their  letters  were  read.  Things 
that  had  belonged  to  them  were  shown.  Voices  no 
longer  tremble,  for  the  sacrifice  was  so  beautiful  that  they 
are  no  longer  of  those  we  call  the  dead.  The  desolate 
mothers  pity  other  mothers  who  have  suffered  less  than 
they.     Marie  asks: 

"  Why  should  we  weep  for  those  who  are  with  God?  " 

They  embrace  her. 

"Monsieur  Reymond,"  says  Madame  Bohler  with  a 
sweet  and  sad  maternal  smile,  "  we  have  no  one  but  you 
to  remind  us  of  the  happy  time  when  they  were  with  us. 
You  were  our  friend  then;  you  are  doubly  our  friend 
now.  Will  you  come  with  us  to  see  Jacques  and  Rene? 
.  .  .  When  we  are  with  them  we  shall  be  able  to  find 
Charles  and  Jean  .  .  .  my  little  Jean!  " 

How  beautiful  it  was!  Alsace  was  never  fairer.  They 
walked  by  the  road  which  winds  along  the  foot  of  the 
mountain.  Flowers  in  the  hedges,  flowers  in  the  cracks 
of  the  walls,  flowers  between  the  stones,  and  then  flowers 
on  the  graves.     Here  it  is.     Jacques   Weiss,  aged  23. 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  305 

Hold  fast  that  thou  hast,  .  .  .  They  gather  round  the 
stone.  Madame  Weiss  bends  over  it;  she  arranges  the 
young  ivy  shoots  with  gentle  fingers,  like  a  mother 
tucking  her  child  into  his  cot.  They  are  silent.  Their 
thoughts  take  flight  towards  that  other  land  of  sorrow 
where  Charles  Weiss  lies.  How  they  go  out  in  search  of 
him  there!  They  wander  round  those  calcined  beams 
which  were  villages;  they  traverse  the  gutted  plains; 
they  follow  the  course  of  sluggish  rivers;  they  plunge  into 
forests;  they  call  and  call.  Then  they  come  back  to  the 
grave  before  them.     And  Weiss  speaks: 

"To  me,  they  are  both  here.  I  will  have  Charles's 
name  cut  on  the  stone.  .  .  .  And  under  it  we  will 
put  .  .  ." 

The  stricken  giant  hesitates.  May  one  say  such 
things? 

"  Well,  yes  ...  we  will  put  the  first  tooth  he  lost 
when  he  was  five  years  old,  and  a  lock  of  his  hair.  Then 
there  will  be  something  of  him  here.  Francois  and 
Suzanne  will  be  able  to  come  and  visit  both  their  brothers 
.  .  .  both  of  them  lent  to  the  lie  that  they  might  still  be 
Alsatians,  and  that  this  soil  might  remain  faithful.  I 
feel  as  if  I  had  given  them  a  hundred  times  over.  What 
a  present  we  have  offered  to  France!  " 

A  bugle  says  its  say:  three  notes,  gaily  repeated,  ring- 
ing out  like  a  laugh.  They  can  see  the  bugler  in  his  blue 
cap  in  the  square  at  Friedensbach.  Four  times  he 
seems  to  cast  his  bugle  heavenwards  with  a  supple  gesture; 
four  times  he  repeats  the  joyous  rhythm  of  his  three  notes. 


306  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

The  children  are  singing  in  the  school.  The  awkward 
accent  of  these  children,  who  are  trying  with  all  their 
hearts,  is  touching.  How  often  Reymond  had  heard  the 
doleful  chant  to  which  Kummel  heat  time  falling  to  the 
earth!  Today  the  song  of  the  little  Alsatians  mounts 
upwards,  because  it  is  sung  with  joy  and  conviction, 
because  they  enter  into  it  heart  and  soul,  and  thus  it 
rejoices  the  swallows  and  dances  with  them  as  it  leaves 
the  rosy  lips: 

There  is  a  word  dearer  than  all  others? 
Liberty!     Liberty! 

"  Liberty !  Liberty !  "  repeated  Victor  Weiss.  "  Yes, 
children,  you  will  know  liberty;  you  will  be  happy, 
because  your  elder  brothers  died  for  you,  after  dire 
sufferings  and  tortures!  .  .  .  Useless  sufferings?  No, 
indeed.  For  they  have  raised  up  a  great  barrier,  wider 
than  the  Rhine,  higher  than  the  Black  Forest.  .  .  .  Ah! 
if  only  the  French  will  understand!  ...  I  call  upon 
them  to  understand;  I  call  upon  them  to  bow  before  my 
sons  who  died  under  the  German  flag.  The  German  flag? 
Yes;  but  they  were  sacrificial  victims.  God  heard  the 
cry  of  their  souls.  He  knows  how  often  Charles  tried  to 
escape.  He  knows  that  the  bullets  of  his  rifle  were  fired 
into  the  ground.  He  knows,  above  all,  how  he  died. 
He  said :  '  Come,  brave  little  Alsatian !  You  bore  your 
anguish  courageously.  Thanks  to  you,  thanks  to  those 
who  died  like  you,  those  who  torture  hearts  stand  for  ever 
arraigned.' " 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  307 

Outlined  against  the  sky  with  his  poor  drawn  face, 
Weiss  is  an  image  of  sorrow. 

And  now  the  bells  are  ringing.  Each  day  those  who 
have  fallen  for  Alsace  on  the  mountains  are  laid  to  rest 
in  her  earth.  A  procession  advances,  the  crucifix,  the 
coffin  draped  in  a  flag,  the  priest,  the  choir-boys,  the 
comrades  of  the  dead  man,  the  old  men  of  Friedensbach, 
the  children,  who  sing  "  Liberty !  Liberty !  "  How  many 
wreaths  there  are  on  the  coffin!  And  women  come  out 
of  the  gardens  and  offer  to  the  unknown  those  old-time 
flowers  which  are  gathered  at  the  foot  of  warm  walls  — 
marigolds,  gallardias,  campanulas.  .  .  . 

The  military  burial-ground  adjoins  the  other  burial- 
ground:  here  trees,  rose-bushes,  and  leafy  shade;  there, 
crosses  in  their  imposing  nudity,  set  closely  side  by  side, 
like  a  regiment  on  parade.  The  procession  groups  itself 
round  the  grave  (other  graves  are  open  beside  it). 
Standing  in  the  sunshine,  the  priest  makes  the  eternal 
gestures,  blesses  the  corpse,  and  sends  those  Latin  prayers 
which  come  from  the  depths  of  centuries  heavenwards. 
There  is  the  creak  of  straining  ropes.  .  .  .  The  soldiers 
salute,  their  hands  smartly  open  against  their  caps. 

And  all  the  old  men  bring  their  heels  together  as  well 
as  they  can,  for  there  are  some  who  fought  at  Magenta 
and  Solferino;  they  are  in  front;  behind  are  those  who 
went  through  the  accursed  war;  they  are  recognizable  by 
the  ribbon  they  wear  so  proudly;  they  did  what  they 
could!  .  .  .  No  French  corpse  enters  this  enclosure 
without  an  escort  of  these  old  Alsatians.     Brushed  and 


308  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

polished  up,  their  wrinkled  faces  shining,  they  receive  it 
as  it  comes  out  of  the  hospital,  and  accompany  it  to 
church;  walking  very  slowly,  following  the  upward  path 
in  fours,  looking  at  each  other  at  intervals  that  they  may 
keep  in  line;  and  when  the  moment  comes  they,  too,  give 
the  salute,  laying  their  hands  against  their  bald  heads. 
The  children  salute  as  well  as  the  old  people.  What  a 
sight  it  is,  these  children  of  Alsace,  these  men,  motionless 
in  presence  of  this  corpse  which  is  slowly  disappearing 
into  the  grave!  If  his  mother,  who  does  not  yet  know 
that  he  is  dead,  could  see! 

De  profundis! 

The  bells  of  Friedensbach  ring  again,  and  then  are 
silent.     An  officer  is  speaking  now: 

"  In  the  name  of  the  Colonel,  in  the  name  of  all  your 
comrades  in  the  regiment  who  are  at  their  posts  up  there 
(he  points  to  the  mountain),  keeping  watch  over  this 
valley  of  Alsace,  Chief  Adjutant  Antoine,  I  come  as  your 
escort  to  the  glorious  threshold  where  sleep  those  who 
have  given  their  lives  for  France.  .  .  .  These  wreaths 
which  our  Alsatian  brethren  offer  you  are  woven  of  the 
red  of  our  holocausts  and  the  green  of  our  hopes;  these 
flowers  which  have  been  gathered  in  the  fields  by  your 
friends  and  bound  into  a  sheaf  typify  the  fidelity  of  our 
memories,  the  gratitude  of  our  hearts,  the  prayer  of  our 
souls.  .  .  .  From  the  place  where  you  sleep  you  will 
see  this  valley  which  your  valour  won  back  for  us; 
between  the  hills  you  will  see  that  plain  of  Alsace,  where 
so  many  of  our  friends  whom  the  valour  of  your  comrades 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  309 

will  deliver  are  still  suffering.  .  .  .  Sleeping  in  Alsace, 
you  will  sleep  in  France. 

"  Chief  Adjutant  Antoine,  the  flag  which  was  never 
lowered  to  the  enemy  is  lowered  respectfully  to  salute 
your  grave." 

The  guns  thunder  at  Vieil-Armand.  Up  above,  a  little 
speck  in  the  sky,  a  bird  of  prey  hovers.  All  around  it 
circle  patches  of  smoke  which  the  wind  drives  along 
gaily.  .  .  .  Another  bird  hastens  to  the  spot:  they 
mount,  they  glide  along,  they  dance  on  the  eddies  of  the 
air,  they  disappear  in  the  tack-tack-tack  of  machine-gun 
fire.  Presently  there  is  nothing  in  the  vast  blue  heavens 
but  this  flock  of  white  sheep.  The  crucifix,  the  priest,  the 
soldiers,  the  children,  and  the  old  men,  have  all  disap- 
peared. 

"  It  is  here,"  says  Madame  Bohler. 

Once  more  they  gather  round  a  grave.  Rene  Bohler, 
Second-Lieutenant,  aged  21;  died  for  France,  December 
14,  1915. 

Suddenly  Madame  Weiss  makes  this  terrible  speech: 

"  How  happy  we  should  be  if  they  were  all  four 
here!  " 

They  look  at  each  other  in  silence.  There  are  perhaps 
two  thousand  crosses.  A  name,  a  date  .  .  .  aged 
twenty,  aged  nineteen,  aged  twenty-three,  aged  twenty, 
aged  twenty.  .  .  .  This  regiment  of  the  dead  climbs  the 
slope  of  the  mountain  impetuously,  behind  the  flag  which 
floats  half-mast  high.  Rene  is  with  them,  in  his  post  of 
command.     On  the  other  side  of  the  wall  is  Jacques. 


310  THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE 

Jean  sleeps  in  the  Argonne,  Charles  in  Poland.  Looking 
at  this  nation  of  crosses,  at  their  disciplined  ranks,  their 
friendliness  to  each  other,  it  is  easy  to  understand  that 
mother's  cry :  "  How  happy  we  should  be  if  they  were  all 
four  here!  "  Here,  that  is  to  say  together,  side  by  side 
with  those  who  dreamt  the  same  dream,  like  the  dead  on 
the  hill  of  Wissembourg.  .  .  .  Here.  .  .  .  One  can  come 
to  see  them  and  speak  to  them,  can  bring  them  flowers. 
Later,  it  will  be  a  place  of  pilgrimage  for  fathers  and 
mothers  from  all  the  provinces  of  France,  from  the  north 
and  from  the  south.  They  will  get  out  at  the  station 
timid  and  bewildered.  They  will  ask:  "  Where  are  those 
who  fell  in  the  war?  "  They  will  look  for  the  name  of 
their  son  in  the  interminable  alleys.  At  last,  holding 
each  other  by  the  hand,  they  will  weep,  and  these  tears, 
falling  on  the  soil,  will  go  to  all. 

The  dead  of  Wissembourg  watched  over  Alsace,  hold- 
ing her  to  the  faith.  And  now  the  dead  are  on  every 
mountain,  in  every  village  of  the  valleys,  from  the  con- 
fines of  Alsace  to  the  confines  of  Lorraine.  This  chain 
of  the  dead  encompasses  the  two  provinces  because  they 
were  worthy  of  it;  prisoners  of  violence,  they  would  not 
sell  their  souls.  Soldiers  of  France  who  sleep  in  this 
earth,  you  would  not  have  chosen  a  fitter  resting-place. 

The  agony  of  the  world,  the  moan  of  crucified  lands, 
the  cry  of  those  who  are  mounting  their  Calvary,  brood 
over  these  crosses.  These  soldiers  heard  this  appeal. 
Rising  in  answer  to  it,  they  were  found  worthy  to  die  for 


THE  HEART  OF  ALSACE  311 

justice.     Their  graves  are  not  sad.     Two  men  and  two 
women  in  mourning  are  bending  over  them.     And  sud- 
denly a  calm  voice  says: 
"  How  happy  they  are!  " 


THE  END 


re  40058 


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